Furball: Story of a Princess
by Dryad13
Summary: Clarisse was a beautiful princess... this, you see, was the source of all her problems. Furball details her fall from princess to servant, then her rise through the kitchen ranks. Completed.
1. Part One--Escape

Author's Note: I am not a cook, and know very little about cooking. Please excuse me if I make any mistakes about anything pertaining to it. ^__^ Now, for the story.  
  
1 Part One  
  
  
  
Her Royal Highness, the Lady Clarisse Hermengart Rosemonde Dalialah of Verbonya, was a very pretty young lady, and she knew it very well; this was the root of all her problems. Her hair was as black as the volcanic glass traders brought from the southeast, her skin was the color of coffee with cream, and her eyes were as blue-green as turquoise; or her father's eyes, for that matter. Except for the one trait, she took after her foreign mother, who'd been the color of cinnamon and who had killed herself shortly after Clarisse was born. Of course, Clarisse didn't know this. It was considered a scandalous thing, though some people did murmur to themselves behind closed doors that they didn't really blame the poor dear. But everyone universally agreed it was much too horrible a thing to talk of to the young princess, and she was pampered terribly by pitying nurses.  
  
So Clarisse grew up ignorant of her mother's death and, in fact, of most things that mattered. Politics—boring. History-- just a bunch of dead people. Courtesy—she was a princess; she didn't need to be courteous to other people. Other people were supposed to be courteous to her. She didn't care much about things not centered on her. The only thing that really bothered Clarisse about her life was the fact that her father was a bit of a miser, to put it nicely, and didn't provide her with things quite as fine as she would have liked. But the king was not easily bullied, wheedled, or persuaded, so Clarisse was left permanently disgruntled. She once punched a visiting lady in the nose for lording her new white ermine coat over her, when Clarisse had nothing but her old mink-edged cloak. It had already been worn for half the season, and Clarisse was very touchy about it.  
  
The king, who really wasn't a very nice person either, was very pleased when his whiny young daughter grew up into an exotic beauty, something that he knew would get her off his hands for a very good amount of gold. She was pretty enough, in his opinion, that all her suitors would be blinded to her…thorny… temperament, and marry her directly. So when Clarisse turned sixteen, he sent news far and wide about his intent to marry her off to a rich young nobleman. And obliging young noblemen appeared from all over the lands adjacent to the king's, eager to see the beautiful princess Clarisse Hermengart Rosemonde Dalialah of Verbonya. Unfortunately, Clarisse wasn't very eager spend a great deal of time with them once she had met them.  
  
Clarisse was spoiled, vain, snotty, and unpleasant, but she was also very smart and was unable to completely hide this, no matter how hard she tried to drown her brain in a pit of vanity. The gathered young, and not so young, men were clever, genial, funny, and handsome, though the traits were spread out evenly among them. But they weren't nearly as rich as she would have wished, so none of them caught her eye, and that was saying it nicely. Clarisse walked up and down among them, insulting them with skill and ingenuity. The men were, accordingly, very insulted, and left. The king had been wrong. Nothing could blind a man to his daughter's horrendous people skills. This vexed the king a great deal, so he became determined to find a man that he could give the young princess to.  
  
Being the less than wonderful person he was, the king knew exactly what kind of man would be willing to marry his daughter; a sadist that enjoyed breaking the spirits of his women, or perhaps an evil mage who would be able to use the girl in one of his spells. The king didn't particularly care. So, he sent out word again, but on a slightly different channel. And an assortment of obliging old evil mages, necromancers, kings, and ogres and the like came. The king didn't bother informing Clarisse this time; he picked the lucky groom himself. It turned out to be a horribly ugly wealthy old sorcerer king with a taste for brunettes (literally). He promised Clarisse's father a great deal of gold for Clarisse, and the marriage was arranged. The groom went back to his castle to prepare, and the king called Clarisse to his chambers, where he informed her of her impending marriage and showed her a picture of her fiancée so she might recognize him when they met. Clarisse was not extremely pleased with his choice.  
  
"Father. Must I repeat myself? No. He looks like something the scullery maid scraped off the kitchen floor. I'd rather marry a warty green troll."  
  
"Really? That can be arranged." The king smiled, having developed a very amused attitude toward the whole business. Clarisse sent her father a withering glare.  
  
"Father," she tried a different approach, " I'll marry this man the day you commission me a dress as golden as the sun, one as silvery as the moon, another as shining as the stars, and a fur coat softer than silk, warmer than wool, and glossier than wing of a starling as wedding gifts." Clarisse knew what a pinchpenny her father was and was confident the demand would make him break off the engagement.  
  
"Alright. Now go away."  
  
And Clarisse was left gaping as a footman swept her out the door. The king, on the other hand, was rather pleased with himself.  
  
  
  
It took a month for Clarisse's wedding clothes to be made, the seamstresses working as fast as they could and the hunters and traders searching for fur as fine as she had demanded. Clarisse was left plenty of time to formulate a plan, because she was determined not to marry the old toad her father had chosen for her. And lost in thought, the gilt looking-glass on the princess's bedside table became dustier and dustier, less and less used. The jars of cosmetics on her dressing table went almost untouched for the entire month and Clarisse didn't notice the worn spots on her favorite slippers from pacing. Perhaps it was just a byproduct of her preoccupied mind, but the servants noticed the change with wonder and more than a little thankfulness. She didn't snap at them when her lipcream ran out or snarl when they forgot to add perfume to her bath water every morning.  
  
But for all her thinking, the only solution Clarisse could come up with was that her father couldn't possibly fulfill her demands, and she simply had to refuse to be wed due to the state of her trousseau. She was very dismayed when, on the night before her wedding, all four of her gifts arrived in her room. A brocaded dress more golden than the sun; a satin dress more light and silvery than the very moonbeams shining through the window; a white silk dress sewn with diamonds and metallic thread to make it more shining than the stars; a coat made of the fur of the black forest panther that stalked at night, fur long and soft and silky, and more glossy black than the wing of a starling.  
  
Panicking, Clarisse did something she had never thought seriously of; she prepared to leave the warmth and comfort of her home at the castle. The ugly old king will probably beat me, for heaven's sake, she thought. Never having been at the mercy of the elements, nature was preferable to this. So Clarisse took her four new dresses and bundled them up into a canvas sack a servant had left in her room, something she usually did not tolerate. Then she took from a shelf three things of her mother's; her most prized possessions, in truth. A tiny porcelain figurine of a cat with golden spots and jeweled eyes, a silver ring set with a fire opal carved into a rose, and a cunningly crafted little golden clockwork frog that hopped when you wound it up. She tied these in her bundle as well. Then she locked the door, found her plainest dress, ripped all the decoration off of it and put it on. Looking at herself in a mirror with a bemused expression, she put on her black coat, put the bundle under it, and fled the castle through a series of small passages and one conveniently placed window.  
  
  
  
And so Clarisse escaped the clutches of an evil old sorcerer-king. When her father found out what had happened, he was furious. But not quite so furious as the Clarisse's would-be husband was. He became absolutely enraged, deciding that the little slip of a girl wasn't worth the time needed for a search. Instead, he locked her father into a tower in his castle and forced him to spin a pile of straw into gold to save his life, which he miraculously did. But that's another story.  
  
Clarisse traveled as far as she could that night. It was snowing quite hard; all traces of her flight through the forest were destroyed, luckily. But the going was not at all easy. She was not used to traveling in the snow, or in the forest, or at night, or really any traveling at all. She stumbled many times and her face was quite scratched before the night was over. But she did the best she could, and, after she had made it a mile or so from her father's palace, she nestled herself into a hollow by a tree to sleep, her fur coat keeping her warm. She had not thought to bring any food, a problem that had not occurred to her before she fell asleep.  
  
The next morning, Clarisse was jostled awake by something rather hard poking her and loud voices.  
  
" Hey now, look what I found, Ben. Not a panther at all; just a little tatterdemalion in a raggedy fur coat!"  
  
Clarisse opened one eye and saw a bearded man standing over her, wearing livery and carrying a bow in one hand. Though she didn't realize it, her castle was standing extremely close to the border of her kingdom. Clarisse had crossed over the border the night before.  
  
"I think you're right. I wonder where she came from." The other man, Ben, had a considerably less raucous voice. Another face appeared next to the bearded man's, peering at her owlishly. They were foresters, by the look of them.  
  
"Well now, lass, you alright? What's your name?"  
  
Clarisse frowned at them and stood up shakily, joints aching from a night huddled up on the ground.  
  
"I am…Dahlia, thought it's hardly any of your business," she said haughtily, using a fragment of her third middle name as an alias.  
  
"Oh, a polite one we've got here, Ben! Now, your Highness, perhaps you might consider getting yourself up and coming with us? This here is the king's forest, and you might just be mistaken for an animal and shot if you ain't careful, to be served for supper in the Great Hall, God forbid!" The middle-aged forester was clearly laughing at her, but the other, Ben, elbowed him on the ribs and held out a hand to help Clarisse up. Clarisse stood, cramped muscles groaning as they stretched.  
  
"Don't mind Peter, over there. He has a sense of humor only he can understand. Now, where do you live, mistress? Perhaps we could escort you home?" His voice was hopeful.  
  
"None of your concern."  
  
"A runaway, then?" asked Ben, half to himself. Peter snorted.  
  
"More like a beggar. Come on, Ben, if she doesn't want any help, I'm certainly not going to help her. We've got a job to do, that doesn't involve coddling prissy young ragamuffins."  
  
"Come on, miss. If you come with us, we'll find a place for you at the castle."  
  
Clarisse sniffed. Ben sighed, glanced at her, and then started walking away with Peter. The princess watched for a few moments, hugging her coat around her, shocked. They… they were just going away? She stood there until they were almost out of sight, not believing that they would really just leave her there. When she realized that they weren't going to come back or wait, she ran through the brush towards the two foresters. They stopped and looked back when they heard her.  
  
"A… job, you said? Something to eat and a place to stay?"  
  
"Decided you want to come back, then?" Ben's voice was skeptical and Peter just ignored her.  
  
"Well… it isn't as if I had anything better to do."  
  
The younger forester smiled, Peter shook his head, and Clarisse followed them through the snow to the castle of King Josef, who ruled the country next to her own.  
  
At the time, kingdoms in Clarisse's area were little more than city- states. King Josef ruled one of the most powerful of all, centered in a large city called Marit. But at the time, he and his court were staying at a winter palace in the woods, which was where Ben and Peter were taking Clarisse. It was a squat, stolid block of a building that could fill-in as a fortress in times of need, and when they finally reached it, Clarisse was less than impressed.  
  
"That is the ugliest building I have ever seen in my life," she stated in disgust. Peter glanced back at her in surprise and burst out laughing.  
  
"It is! It looks like someone took a huge big square hunk of rock and poked a few holes in it for windows, then plopped it down in the middle of a perfectly good forest."  
  
"I'm sure you're quite the master architect, Miss Dahlia, ma'am," he said with a grin. It was Ben's turn to shake his head wryly. Clarisse fell back into a sulk. She hated people laughing at her.  
  
"Don't worry, you won't be seeing too much of the palace from the kitchens," he added.  
  
"And speaking of the kitchens, here we are. Dahlia, stay with Peter. I'll go find the head cook and he'll find a place for you."  
  
Clarisse reluctantly watched him go off as they arrived in a courtyard in the rear of the palace. It was full of people bustling around, most carrying food or buckets or brooms. A short door was located in one gray wall, leading into a smoky room. Clarisse shuffled her feet in the dust and waited. She wasn't quite sure what a job in the kitchens would require. Cooking, she would think, but there seemed to be more people in the courtyard than needed for that. And a lot of them just seemed to be cleaning. For once in her life, Clarisse felt truly out of her league, and that bothered her. And she realized, at that moment, how completely ignorant she was.  
  
Ben returned a few moments later with another man in tow, this one with disarrayed blond hair and a smudged apron. He had the look of someone who was sure that he did not have time to be doing this one thing, but had been dragged off against his will. Once they stopped next to Clarisse and her forester companion, he redirected his glare to the princess.  
  
"A job, you want?" he asked curtly. Clarisse glowered back at him sullenly without answering.  
  
"Teenagers," sighed Peter. "Yes, she does need a job. We found her out in the woods and she refused our offer to take her back home. It's our opinion that she's a runaway, so we just took her back here before she froze to death out in the forest."  
  
"Well, what ever. You have any skills, girl? D'you cook decently? Sew?"  
  
The princess shook her head defiantly, but her confidence had begun to wilt at the edges.  
  
"Alright, then. Go inside and find a large black-haired woman named Miriam. She'll tell you what to do."  
  
He strode off without another word. Clarisse sniffed again and Ben shrugged at her.  
  
"He's always like that. Don't mind him, he's more bark than bite. But we should be going now. Good day, miss. Nice to meet you." He nodded politely and turned to leave. Peter saluted her half-mockingly and followed suit. They tramped out of the snowy courtyard without looking back, leaving Clarisse to face her new life alone. She didn't relish the prospect.  
  
  
  
The inside of the kitchen was one of the most unpleasant places Clarisse had ever been. It was hot and smoky and full of people, turning spits and rolling out dough. It was also rather filthy; Clarisse shuddered to think that the kitchens where she had gotten her food were as dirty as this one. She turned her mind from that train of thought quickly and wondered whom Miriam was. The description had not been very particular; lots of women were large and black—Oh.  
  
Clarisse's eyes set upon the tallest woman she had ever seen in her life, and she knew that that must be Miriam. She was easily larger than all of the women, and most of the men, in the room. The princess pulled her mud- spattered fur coat around her more tightly and marched up to the woman's side.  
  
"Are you Miriam?" she said in her best princess voice. Miriam didn't even turn around to look at her. Clarisse cleared her throat and tried again.  
  
"Excuse me, madam." No answer.  
  
"Lady! Are you completely deaf, or just ignoring me?"  
  
That got a reaction. A scullery maid nearby gasped at Clarisse's tone and skittered away. Miriam turned around to look down upon the princess with a face like a thunderhead. Clarisse raised her chin imperiously.  
  
"Might you be Miriam?"  
  
"I might be, and am Miriam. My question is, who do you think you are to use that tone of voice with me? I don't recall seeing you before." Her voice was icy.  
  
"My name is Dahlia." The lie came without hesitation now. "The," she grimaced, remembering the man, "head cook sent me to you. I am looking for work, and he said you would tell me what to do."  
  
Miriam was silent for a moment, and then got a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She relaxed visibly.  
  
"Yes, I know the perfect job for you. We've been needing another drudge to turn the spits. One of ours fell into the fire and burned to death, so we need a replacement for her. I think you will do nicely."  
  
The girl's eyes widened, but then narrowed into a suspicious glare when someone close by hastily stifled a giggle. Miriam grinned fiendishly and beckoned Clarisse to follow her.  
  
"Come, Dahlia. I'll show you where you'll be staying. And I'll get you some proper clothes; Anise won't need them any more, surely. And you'll have to take off that coat of yours. You'll get hair in the soup, and then what will the king say?"  
  
She led "Dahlia" out a passage and up a narrow stairway, until they came to a low hallway lined with doors, numbers carved above each. Miriam opened number 27.  
  
"And lucky you, a room all to yourself." She walked in and opened a drawer under the bed. Two nicely folded dresses and various underthings were there, and two stained aprons.  
  
"There. Change, put your things away, and come back downstairs immediately. We have feast to prepare; the young King has just turned twenty, and people from all over are coming to the ball. It will take days to get everything made."  
  
Clarisse made a face at Miriam's retreating back, then sighed when the door closed. Why was everyone at this place being so unpleasant to her? Everyone seemed to be scowling all the time. The princess had long ago begun to wonder whether running away and becoming a servant was a very intelligent move. She had gotten the impression in her few minutes here that servants didn't leave very nice lives, and nobody was ever polite to you if they thought you were one of them. Clarisse thought over all of this and more as she changed into her new clothing. She certainly had enough time; the girl wasn't used to dressing without help, and it took her quite awhile to button up the back her gown. When she came back to see Miriam, the bigger woman pursed her lips and shook her head.  
  
"I see you finally came down to join us. Now, here's what you need to do. See over there? Those are the spits, where we cook whole pigs, chickens, and the like. You know that. What you'll be doing is turning the handles to get them cooked evenly, making sure the dogs don't filch them, and calling for more wood when you need them. From the look on your face, you've never done this before. Mari, the girl already working over there, will help you if you need it. Now, shoo. I've got work to do." She shoved Clarisse lightly in the right direction and walked away, leaving the princess feeling half angry, half forlorn. Everybody kept handing her off to someone else. She wondered who else she'd have to talk to before the day was over. She went over to Mari, who told her to wait a moment. A few chickens, part of what would be the day's dinner, were put in her care. Clarisse turned the spit sullenly, eyes locked on the ground surrounding the fire. Why would there be dogs around the kitchen? She didn't want to think about that.  
  
A few chickens later the firewood became mostly ash and Clarisse called, sullenly, for more. A few hours after that, the food was sent up to be served and the food-preparers wandered off for their own midday meal. Clarisse looked around, hoping to discover where she would find food waiting for her, then turned and, sullenly once again, asked Mari where they were fed. Mari lead her to another room connected to the one they worked in. They picked up a few slices of bread, a few scraps of meat, and a tin cup of water. Then she led her out into the hall, where a few other servants had sat down to eat. The princess and the kitchen-girl slid down to crouch by the others. Clarisse did it as sullenly as she could, listening to Mari and the other girls chatter happily. The sound of their cheerful voices left her in an even more sullen mood than before. Buy the time lunch was over, the other servants were taking one look at Clarisse's face and going back in the opposite direction. If she had not looked so ill- tempered, more than a few of them would have come to talk to her.  
  
So life, continued one for days. Clarisse got up before dawn—after having been awakened by a bucket of cold water three days in a row, Clarisse learned to mind the wake-up call—,helped warm left over meat for breakfast, helped to roast the new(er) meat for dinner, and reheated the meat from dinner for the evening meal. She got short breaks for her own food and got a chance to wash her clothing once a week. Clothes washing had been a new experience for the runaway princess. The washerwoman were almost all large and red-faced and built like blacksmiths. They frightened her out of her wits.  
  
"What do you mean, girl?" said one called Sally, squinting down at the princess. "What do you mean, you don't know how?"  
  
Clarisse mumbled something incoherently. Sally sighed heavily and showed her the proper method for scrubbing clothing. The girl mimicked her motions ineptly.  
  
"Good enough. Now you take them out, see, and hang them on the line to dry."  
  
Clarisse wrestled her sodden woolen clothing out of their vat of hot water—now weighing more, she was sure, than a small child—and hung them on a clothes line. Sally patted her on the back, nearly knocking the girl to the ground.  
  
"See, not so hard after all, eh? What kind of house did you come from, girl?"  
  
Clarisse went to bed that day feeling as if she had survived a great ordeal. She was strangely proud.  
  
  
  
Days turned into weeks, and Clarisse had had enough of the spits. Between the broiling heat, the pups that patrolled the kitchens for both scraps and rats, and the monotony of turning a spit hour after hour after hour, she felt like she was about to go insane. But she knew she couldn't return home to her own palace, where both her father and her bridegroom awaited her—though the thought did cross her mind from time to time. She remembered the silken dresses, the gorgeous jewelry, the hot perfumed baths and the delicious meals wistfully, but the picture of her almost-husband tainted all her memories.  
  
So she decided to stay in the kitchens, though not in the spits. Luckily for her, winter had just turned to spring and several of the cook- assistants' assistants' assistants were leaving to marry and there were job openings preparing food. Clarisse leapt at this opportunity avidly. But it would mean going to see the intimidating Miriam again. She approached the tall woman with caution and mental note to be scrupulously polite.  
  
"Excuse me, ma'am," she said respectfully when she sighted Miriam in the kitchen one morning. Miriam turned around, eyes widening slightly when she saw Clarisse standing before her.  
  
"Dahlia, is it? I'm glad you finally have a civil tongue in your head. What is it?"  
  
"Um. I heard that there were job openings for a cook's assistant position, and I was wondering if I might have the job?" She said it very fast. Miriam looked at speculatively.  
  
"Do you even know how to cook?"  
  
"Well, not really. But the third level assistants don't really do any cooking, right? Just chopping and grinding and sorting herbs. I'm a fast learner." Secretly, Clarisse was just thinking, oh, please, take me take me don't make turn the blasted spit anymore please. Miriam shrugged.  
  
"Oh, fine. Just as long as you stay polite, though. If anyone complains about your work, or your rudeness, you're out. Alright?"  
  
The princess nodded quickly. Miriam gestured toward another part of the kitchens, where the third level assistants—there were more than fifteen of them—were busy working.  
  
"Tell the assistant-in-charge that I sent you. She'll tell you what needs to be done." Miriam turned back to her own work. Clarisse, more elated about her promotion than she had ever been about a new dress, dashed over to her new station. The assistant-in-charge gave her directions, and she set about chopping carrots and potatoes and apples serenely. She hoped that by the time the king and court returned to the capital city, once true spring arrived, that she would have moved up to second level assistant's assistant.  
  
The kitchens had a huge, intricate caste system all its own that had taken Clarisse many weeks to understand. At the very bottom were water-carriers and wood-choppers, followed by spit-turners and dish-washers. Then came the third level assistants, all 22 of them(including Clarisse!). After that it got complicated. The third-level assistants-in-charge were higher than second level assistant's assistants, but the latter was an apprentice that would eventually become second-level assistant, which was higher than both. The second level assistant-in-charge was only a dream for most of the kitchen workers, but the first-level assistants were higher still. There were only five of them, and they answered directly to the Head Cook, Constantin, the impatient blonde man who Clarisse had talked to her first day at the palace. Then there were the kitchen overseers, like Miriam, who were another system entirely, keeping each room running smoothly—Clarisse's head spun as she chopped vegetables and imagined her rise through the ranks.  
  
"What? Done already? You can help me." asked a voice, shattering her reverie. She saw one of the other assistants looking at her. He pushed a huge bowl toward the princess, full of eggs, and two slightly smaller empty bowls.  
  
"Eggs needed to be separated. Whites in one bowl, yolks in the other." He started on the huge pile, and Clarisse watched out of the corners of her eyes to learn what he was doing. She took an egg, hesitantly, and copied his movements. After three eggs, she got the hang of it. After ten, she was working faster than the other assistant was. Soon the egg bowl was empty.  
  
"Lord, what were you doing as a spit turner? You're better at this than me," noticed the other, whistling softly. Clarisse shrugged, slightly embarrassed.  
  
Before midday, she learned how to whip the egg whites and the finer points of kneading bread dough. By evening, she had, with horrified fascination, learned how to pluck feathers from fowl and to remove the innards, keeping the organs used for cooking. She went to bed that night thoroughly pleased with her new assignment.  
  
Before Clarisse knew it, a month had past and the king was leaving his winter palace to return to the capital. It was a time she both looked forward to and dreaded: it was a time when workers where either promoted and brought along, sent to other castles, or fired. The first option was the one she hoped for, the second was bearable, and the third was terrifying. She had no idea where she would go if they sent her away. Not home; her hands were red and rough, her arms muscled from her work. She didn't look so much like a princess anymore, not after so long washing her own clothes and turning spits and kneading dough. Just an uncommonly pretty kitchen maid who would give you the rough side of her tongue if you displeased her. Three months in the kitchens had expanded her vocabulary exponentially.  
  
And so, the anticipated day finally arrived when all the inhabitants of the kitchen, from the lowest water-carrier to the first assistants, crowded into one room. The Head Cook stood in the front with all the kitchen overseers, including the easily-identified Miriam. Clarisse stood towards the back, leaning against a wall in her cleanest dress and least patched apron. The crowd murmured nervously, until the Head Cook called for quiet.  
  
"Ahem. Well. It's that time of year again, as you know," he seemed, as always, somewhat distracted. Clarisse had learned that this was his habitual demeanor and didn't necessarily have anything to do with his mood at the moment.  
  
"Some of you we'll bring with us, some will stay here until we come back late next fall, whether you like it or not." Some of the lower servants lived in the village and were only hired on as extras when the king was in residence at the winter palace. "Your friendly local overseer has kindly provided me with a list of recommendation to keep with us." A brief, nervous chuckle swept through the crowd. The overseers were brusque, commanding, intimidating, and respected, but not friendly. "Let's see. All the first assistants are coming, as you know. Section one, second assistants…" Clarisse let her mind drift off. She was in Section Four. It would be awhile until they got to her. She waited, impatiently, for over half an hour until she heard the words, "Section Four, third level assistants." Her attention riveted itself to the front of the room.  
  
"Let's see. Assistant-in-Charge Dana is coming along in her regular post; Tom Carver, being transferred to Lord Rayne's castle; Karla, staying here until next winter; Dahlia, coming, promoted to second assistant. Good job. Verne, coming; Jacob…" Clarisse stood stock still as she heard her alias called out. When she heard her new post—straight to second assistant, not even being assistant's assistant first—an enormous, silly, jubilant grin spread over her face. Someone patted her on the shoulder amiably, others whispered surprised congratulations. The princess-turned-servant went through the rest of the day with huge smile on her face, working and packing her possessions mechanically. She just shrugged mildly instead of replying sharply when her coworkers remarked, sardonically, that they had never seen her so animated before—she seemed almost pleasant. Nothing could damage her good spirits. 


	2. Part Two--Settling In.

Author's Note: Okay, here's part two. It mostly sets the stage for part three—not much action really takes place. Part three should end everything. I hope to finish the story soon, but who knows when the rest of it will be up. Anyways, enjoy Part two! And REVIEW, I beg of you! ^__^  
  
  
  
  
  
The trip from the winter palace to the king's castle at the capital was like nothing Clarisse had ever been through in her life. That didn't necessarily mean it was fun; it was different, which can describe anything number of unpleasant things.  
  
The courtiers were long gone, along with a few lucky servants, by the time the main portion of the staff were packed and ready to go. Not everyone was leaving, and they didn't bring everything with them, but the people and their things together filled over twenty large wagons. Clarisse, bag flung over her shoulder, was immediately lost in a sea of bustling activity once she stepped out of the palace and into the crisp spring air. Through some trick of luck, she was swept directly into a line of people waiting to board the wagons. And walking up and down that line…  
  
"Dahlia! Where have you been?" bellowed a stentorian voice. Clarisse winced. Miriam had found her. "Come on, you're in Wagon Six. See the numbers? Good. Now run, girl—we're trying to get this mess cleaned up!" Miriam walked off to find someone else to berate.  
  
Feeling slightly singed, the princess dove back into the human river and tried to worm her way through the servants toward her assigned wagon. She wasn't small enough that it worked very well; mostly she just knocked the others off balance and out of the way. Eventually, after a few muttered apologies from her and many muffled curses from everyone else, she reached Wagon Six, climbed up the back, and collapsed onto a bench with a sigh of relief. Or, at least, she collapsed where she thought there was a bench.  
  
"Oof!" Clarisse gasped as she landed on the hard wooden floor of the wagon. "Oh…ow." She surveyed the faces looking back at her, most third level assistants from her section. "I thought wagons were supposed to have—benches, or something."  
  
One shrugged apologetically. "These used to, but what's the use, when everyone's bumping around and falling out of their seats anyway?"  
  
Her forehead creased slightly. Clarisse wasn't sure she and the wagon were going to get along very well. The carriages she had been used to at home had always made her slightly sick, and they had been pulled by smooth- trotting horses. The contraption she was riding in at the moment was hooked up to two enormous hairy beasts that might have resembled horses had they been shaved. No, thought Clarisse, I don't think this will be good. Her trepidation wasn't quieted any by the appearance of their driver some time later, a mischievous-looking farm-boy of fifteen or sixteen.  
  
"Good morning, my lords and ladies," he said, mimicking the stuck-up servants who drove the nobility about. "We're running a bit late today and the Chief told us to pick up the pace a bit once we get started. So hold onto your bags and try to puke out the back if you need to!" Having said this, he sat down in front, picked up the reins, and started the horses forward. They lurched into a bone-jarring shuffle, the princess's stomach lurched in the opposite direction, and Clarisse closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep. It just made her feel worse, so she opened her eyes and stared out of the back of the wagon.  
  
It was a beautiful day, especially for so early in the spring. The cloudless sky was a perfect shade of blue and the sunshine warmed the air to that delightful temperature that's neither too hot nor too cool. The trees were enveloped in a hazy green cloud of tiny leaves, and patches of new flowers brightened the fields. By all rights it should have been a wonderful day for traveling. And it was, Clarisse reminded herself; it was the traveling itself that wasn't so wonderful. She tried to concentrate her attention on the caravan that stretched along the dirt road. The closest wagon was only twenty feet or so behind them, but the very last ones were still in front of the palace, becoming tinier and tinier as Wagon Six and its gleeful driver drove away. A sense of calm descended over Clarisse, quieting her roiling stomach somewhat. She glanced over at her traveling companions, slumped against the walls with bored looks on their faces, and stretched out on the floor, head pillowed on her bag. She slept.  
  
"Hey, lady! Wake up, 's time to eat!" Clarisse opened one eye and saw a snub-nosed face staring down at her. She gathered her sleep-jumbled thoughts and sat up.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said, we've stopped for lunch. You sure did sleep awhile. We're halfway to the city." Having done his job, the wagon driver jumped out the back and went to his own lunch. Clarisse yawned quickly, a bit surprised, and grabbed a small sack from her makeshift pillow. Lunch. She slid out the back of the wagon—she was tempted to jump, but was afraid how her skirts might affect the action—and sat down on the green, green grass below. Apparently they had only arrived recently: other wagons were still leaving the road and parking on the grass, with a good many still traveling toward the resting point. She wondered where they were. She had never traveled so far in her life.  
  
Clarisse spent a lazy quarter of an hour munching on her bread and butter and apple cider, speculating on what the capital would look like. Would it be as grand as her old home? Better? Worse? And how many servants had stayed behind to feed the courtiers who hadn't come to the winter castle? She didn't want her job threatened. Lost in thought, she didn't notice anyone approaching.  
  
"Oof!" she gasped for the second time that day, hand flying to her leg; it had, incidentally, just been stepped on.  
  
"Ach! I'm sorry, I didn't see you there at all," said a contrite voice. She looked up to see the Head Cook looking down at her guiltily. "Are you alright?"  
  
"I guess," she replied, feeling bruised. The Cook rubbed the back of his neck.  
  
"Well, that's good then. Dahlia, isn't it? I don't suppose you could tell me which wagon this is, or are you mad at me for stepping on you?"  
  
"It's number six, and I'm getting rather used to getting hurt today, so don't worry yourself."  
  
"Thank you, then. Good day." He marked something on a slate he was carrying, and walked on. Clarisse felt vaguely sorry for him. Head Cook was an administrative job more than anything, and administrating such a disorganized mess as the kitchens had to be less than fun. She forgave him for stepping on her and got up to walk around before it was time to leave again.  
  
Clarisse spent the rest of the trip awake, but gloriously free of motion sickness. One of her fellow passengers had told her, kindly, that she might feel better if she kept her eyes on the road in front of them. She was surprised when it actually worked.  
  
After inquiry, she discovered several things about their trip: the capital was about forty miles from the winter palace, it would take all day to get there, the roads would get better as they got closer to the city, and if Clarisse didn't stop asking questions, they were going to toss her out the back of the wagon. She sniffed loudly and sat back to watch the road again. Hours passed. Villages became more and more common until, at last, as the sun set over the hills, a tall tower was visible in the distance. The sun was long gone when the first wagon wheels reached the cobblestone streets of the outer city. Eventually they reached the side of the castle and friendly voices called out to the weary travelers.  
  
Clarisse just slumped in the wagon until someone poked her in the side and told her to follow them.  
  
Her benefactor led her into the castle and through a labyrinth of corridors, eventually taking her through the door of a stone room and closing it behind them. Clarisse blinked and looked around.  
  
Three beds, a wardrobe, and a chipped porcelain washbasin had been squished into a small stone-walled room with one small fireplace. A young woman was lying across the bed in the middle, looking toward Clarisse curiously. Turning around, she saw that the kind person who had led her there was a young woman as well, with straw yellow hair and a round friendly face.  
  
"So they finally did arrive! I thought they never would come. Are you our new roommate?" asked the woman on the bed, smiling at the princess. She nodded tiredly in reply.  
  
"Well, you like you're about to fall asleep on your feet! Here, this bunk is yours." This came from the blonde woman who had escorted her from the wagons. Clarisse shook herself and walked over to the bed farthest from the door. After sitting down—with a long, grateful sigh—she spoke.  
  
"I'm--," yawn, "Dahlia. Pleased to meet you."  
  
"My name is Rosemary," replied the blonde, "And this lout over here is Marlyn. She's a slob, but a nice girl at heart. Try not to hold it against her." They spoke with the familiarity of long-time friends. Clarisse nodded again.  
  
"Hey, why don't you get some sleep? You'll probably have to spend all of tomorrow on tours and listening to rules and lectures—you weren't here last year, were you? —so there's no point in explaining things around here now."  
  
Clarisse changed into her shift and crawled underneath her blanket. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Psst—be quiet, Marlyn! Don't wake her up yet!"  
  
"No, Miriam wants all the newcomers assembled in the eating hall! She'll be in for it if she isn't there on time!"  
  
Clarisse felt a hand on her shoulder, shaking her slightly. She opened her eyes and blinked groggily.  
  
"I'm awake," she sighed. She steeled herself, then swept off the covers and sat up in one movement. Rosemary and Marlyn were already awake and dressed, peering at her anxiously.  
  
"We let you sleep as long as you could, but you need to get going. Quick. You know Miriam, don't you?"  
  
"Yes. She frightens me."  
  
"She frightens everyone, girl. But she's good to have around. Even the nobles won't cross her. Anyways, though, she's going to show you around. The castle's a big place, a lot larger than the winter palace. It'll take you a few weeks to find your way around well, but this'll help." Rosemary rolled her eyes and poked Marlyn, who had been speaking, in the side.  
  
"We put your bag in the wardrobe. We need to go now, before our ladies wake up. But the mess hall isn't too far away; you'll get there fine. Take a left when you step out the door and keep going till you see two big double doors. And hurry up. Bye now. We'll see you at lunch." With that, Clarisse's two roommates disappeared out the door. The princess stood up and retrieved her bag, wondering just how quickly she would need to move. The room had no windows and she had no idea what time it was. She went as fast as she could, anyways, splashing tepid water on her face, putting on her petticoats, gown and apron, pinning her hair up and wrapping a kerchief around it.  
  
She did find the mess hall easily, which relieved her to no end. It was only half full, another blessing. The tall, black-haired woman Clarisse had come to respect and fear was standing in the front of the room, by a large cauldron full of porridge. Two long tables sat in front of her; people sat on them facing her—other newcomers, she supposed. The princess moved to sit on one of the benches, wondering if they would get breakfast. A few minutes later, when more people had assembled, she got her answer.  
  
"Alright then, I see everyone's here. Or, if they're not, too bad. We're beginning now. I should start off by saying my name's Miriam, in case any of you don't know me, and I'm a kitchen monitor. And this is the "orientation tour", for all of you people who haven't worked in the castle before. Kitchen workers, that is. This place is a hell of a lot bigger and older than the winter palace, so you all better pay attention."  
  
"This is the eating hall. I hope that you are all smart enough to figure that out on your own, or else you're not going to last long here. I also hope you know how to get here from your rooms, or else you're going to be going without food. But I should explain where your rooms are, in relation to everything else, first."  
  
She launched into an explanation of the palace's layout, how the servants quarters were divided into several wings on the back of the first level, with no respect to what level servant you were. So deal with it, were Miriam's words. It explained how Clarisse came to be roomed with Rosemary and Marlyn, who seemed to be some sort of ladies' maids.  
  
"Now, we'll be going on a tour of the kitchens. When we get back, you can all have your breakfast," said the kitchen monitor at last. "So I hope that will cut back on dawdling. And after, finally, you will all report to your respective positions. Remember where you work, I'll be pointing each section out as we go along. Up now, everyone."  
  
And they left.  
  
  
  
  
  
By midday, Clarisse was almost as overwhelmed as she had been the day after she had run away and the two foresters had found her in the wood. But she wasn't as sullen as she had been that day—had it only been three months ago? Her promotion to second-level had only broadened the kind of work she did. Gone were the fowl to be plucked—instead there were expensive spices and fine wines, powdered sugar and fresh fruit. She was happier than she had ever been as a princess; in cooking, she found something profoundly interesting that she loved to do. When she arrived in the eating hall again, her apron was covered with flour and her face was covered with a slight smile that refused to go away. Rosemary and Marlyn found her at once and waved her over to them.  
  
"Dahlia! Sit over here, before someone else comes up."  
  
"Some of the others are really stuck up," whispered Rosemary, gesturing with her head toward a group of servants coming through the door. They were wearing clothes that were finer than what the kitchen-workers had—rather like the two woman who the princess was sitting next to, now that she thought of it. Marlyn, dark-haired and sharp-featured, had a lace flounce on each of her sleeves.  
  
"They actually serve the nobles, don't they? And you too?" Her question held only curiosity, not jealousy.  
  
"Yes. We don't let it go to our heads—it's really not all that great, believe me—but some of the above-stairs servants get really bad about it. Just try to stay out of their way, you'll be fine. Though they wouldn't do anything but annoy you to death." Rosemary shook her head expressively, showing what she thought of them. Marlyn shrugged. Though they didn't look at all alike, Clarisse noticed suddenly, they seemed like sisters. She had already begun to think of them collectively; later on, she would discover that the staff had nicknamed them the Twins, one rarely seen without the other.  
  
"We work for Lady Marionetta, the daughter of the Count of Greene. We're minor maids on her staff, but we have to dress nicely if we're to work in the nobles' sight. Luckily, we don't have much direct contact with her. She can be pretty nasty when she's in a bad mood," explained Marlyn. "What do you do? Work in the kitchens, but on what?  
  
"I'm second-level assistant," replied Clarisse absently, remembering when she had been the lady who maids had served. Had they called her nasty when they talked to their friends? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.  
  
"Er, what exactly does that mean?" Rosemary cut into her thoughts, and the princess was brought back to the present, where she was idly eating bread and salt pork with two girls who might be her friends, who had never been exposed to the kitchen's knotty caste system. Clarisse bit her lower lip reflectively.  
  
"Let's see—this is my first day on my new job, you know, so I'm not sure of all my duties. I help bake cakes and pies, candy nuts, mix up marinades, the like. I think we get to do some of the artsy arranging and decorating, but I haven't leaned that yet."  
  
"That must be fun," said Marlyn with a grin. "You get to taste all the yummy food the nobles eat."  
  
"Oh, no!" replied the princess, horrified. "We have to taste some things, like sauce, to make sure we got it right, but I don't want to think about what the kitchen monitor, or assistant-in-charge, would do to us if we did eat something!  
  
"Oh. It's not like that upstairs—sometimes we get cast-off things, you know? –but we'll show you that later. Anyways, where exactly did Miriam show you around this morning? Did you get to go upstairs any?" Clarisse shook her head no.  
  
"That's too bad. It's really something to see, much nicer than that horrid palace in the woods. I had to go there once a few years ago, when milady's family went there with the old king. All cold and drafty! This place is much better. You'll like it here."  
  
"A few years ago?" Clarisse thought about that for a moment—surely the two weren't any older than she herself, and she was only seventeen. "How long have you two been working here?"  
  
"Our mums were washerwomen, so we've lived here all our lives." Rosemary spoke now. "We started helping out when we were six or seven, but we didn't start working for milady until we were thirteen." She looked at the princess thoughtfully. "You haven't been working very long, have you? You don't talk like a servant. Your accent's funny, you know? You weren't born in this kingdom, were you?"  
  
Clarisse was startled, and took a bite of food to give her time to think of a reply. No one had ever asked about her history before—no one had really taken the time to talk to her. She had been a bit unpleasant when she first came to work, she remembered guiltily. No one had wanted to talk to her. She swallowed and started to speak, but saw Rosemary's rosy face become pale suddenly, staring over Clarisse's shoulder. She turned around, and saw a short, heavy woman with a scowl standing in the doorway.  
  
"Ah! We got to go, Dahlia, I'm sorry. We'll see you at supper, all right? Bye!"  
  
They got up in a rush and raced toward the door. Clarisse watched them go wryly and wondered whom the woman was. Their boss, she figured. They must have spent too long eating.  
  
"As have I," muttered Princess Clarisse under her breath. It had been the longest conversation she had had since—since when? She hadn't had many friends even before she left Verbonya. She'd have to be careful, if she were going to spend so much time talking, that she had a history ready for herself. One that didn't involve kings, or castles, or dresses more shining than the sun.  
  
She got up, threw away her trash, and walked away.  
  
  
  
She didn't see her two new friends at dinner that evening, which made her wonder, if not worry, that they had gotten in trouble for spending too long at lunch. But when she returned to their room that night, they were sitting there with excited looks on their faces. They greeted her warmly as she walked in.  
  
"Where were you two during dinner?" she asked curiously after taking a seat on her bed. They grinned.  
  
"Lady Marionetta is going to get married; we just found out today, and she already has us running getting ready. We spent all afternoon and evening running back and forth from the costumier's rooms and milady's, getting new fabric samples! It was horrible, but we got all sorts of old odds and ends out of it, that she was throwing out, and there'll be a ball soon for her! This is wonderful!" Marlyn said it all in one breath, and Clarisse blinked in surprise. Rosemary beckoned her over to the wardrobe, where they showed her a small box containing cosmetics—cream for the skin, white powder, lip color, blush.  
  
"I can't wait until—," started Rosemary, stopping abruptly halfway through reddening. Marlyn chuckled.  
  
"She means, she can't wait until our day off and she can go into town and visit a certain someone…"  
  
"Marlyn!"  
  
"Don't worry," replied the princess, an amused smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "I won't tell. I don't have any names anyway."  
  
"Well, Marlyn oughtn't be talking. I could name a few lutists here at the castle who've certainly…" Marlyn smacked Rosemary on the arm, and Clarisse tried to steer them to a safer topic.  
  
"What's so great about a ball? We can't go, surely. It's just more work for us. Me cooking and you two, well, doing whatever jobs you two do."  
  
"But we can go, just not actually into it. The musicians play from a little gallery on the second floor, you see, and they don't mind letting us go in and watch. Or if we're lucky we can serve at the ball. Which mean nice clothes for us. And the best part is…"  
  
"…We get to eat the leftover food!" crowed Marlyn happily. Clarisse giggled slightly at her energy.  
  
"You'll get to see everything above-stairs then, too. It'll be fun, you'll see."  
  
  
  
"Fun" wasn't exactly the word she would have used, mused the princess a few weeks later, the very day of the ball. She wasn't even sure she would be able to attend. The kitchens had been working overtime for the past few days, the servants working madly to finish the feast before it was time for it to be served. It had been an educating experience, though, she thought. She had learned how to make several different dessert pastries and a tasty- looking chicken pasty sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, among other things. Her favorite part, though, was the decorating—gilding pears and peaches and apples with a metallic liquid, making sugar roses, and lacy cream-filled cakes that crumbled on the first bite. She often glanced over towards where the first-level assistants worked, envious. Marzipan doves, spun sugar unicorns, and an enormous cake occupied them most of their time. Their creations were nothing short of gorgeous.  
  
It would be a long time, if ever, before she was that good; she knew it. But it turned out to be a good thing she was only second-level assistant for the first ball she ever contributed too: her job was over before it started. The second-level people didn't have to present their masterpieces to the ball's guests-of-honor, like the first-levelers, and they didn't have to stay in the kitchen to work at keeping everything warm until it was served. No, Clarisse was able to run off early and find the Twins before the beginning.  
  
Neither Rosemary or Marlyn had the good luck—as they mournfully put it—to be able to serve at the ball that time. Instead, they waited in the room for Clarisse to appear. Then they would all go upstairs together to spy on the nobles.  
  
"Over here, Dahlia," said Marlyn when they had all gathered in their room. She and Rosemary were kneeling by the wardrobe again, putting on the make-up they had been given weeks before. "It is a ball, whether we were invited or not. Put on your best dress and some of this stuff. No reason not to dress up when we have the chance."  
  
Clarisse knelt on the floor and reached, hesitantly, toward a glass jar of cream she knew would make her rough hands feel soft again. But, as her fingers touched it, an old memory put itself before her eyes: the memory of one occasion when she had thrown a bottle of something similar across the room when a maid had brought her the wrong kind. She shut her eyes and withdrew her hand.  
  
"No, thank you," she replied quietly. "I would feel strange, using such things. I like to be able to look into a mirror and recognize myself." In her mind she added, I don't want to look into the mirror and see the person I used to be. Pretty is as pretty does, she thought. If that's true, I look much better as I am now.  
  
"Suit yourself," sighed Rosemary. "But this color would look delightful on you. Do you have any good gowns to wear? No?" Clarisse had shook her head, though she remembered her three dresses—her wedding presents—that lay in a tight bundle under her shabby fur coat.  
  
"You can borrow one of mine," suggested Marlyn. "We're about the same size."  
  
And that was that. Before long, she was dressed in a full-skirted green dress with eyelet trim, similar to the blue and deep brown ones her roommates wore.  
  
"Let's go, then, you two. I can't wait to show you the ball room, Dahlia."  
  
The three young woman left and made their way toward a hall that the princess had never had the opportunity to use before. It led to a tall, winding stone staircase lined with sputtering candles. At the top lay a dank stone passageway. Rosemary led the way down it for about five minutes, then stopped abruptly before a doorless doorway that had some kind of wall- hanging over it. From the passageway, the backside was facing them.  
  
"Through here," said the blonde ladies' maid. They ducked through and emerged in a richly decorated hallway. Clarisse's heart lurched strangely when she saw the fine carpets, the tapestries, the delicately shaped candelabras. This—this looked like home.  
  
"This is one of the less frequently used halls," whispered Rosemary, "but we should be quiet anyways. The musician's gallery isn't too far, and we can watch from there. Marlyn's friends with the director and several of the players, so they won't mind us."  
  
Clarisse nodded and followed the other two obediently, taking in as much of the familiar surroundings as she could. She had never been homesick before, but now it had hit her like a stone wall. Images came rushing into her mind: a tall canopied bed, a roaring fire place, a hot meal always there when she wanted it, carpets so deep you sank down to your ankles in them, and gowns—oh, the gowns!—that swished softly when you moved. Silk brocade, velvet, fine linen, satin, gauze…She shook herself and shut her mind to such things, paying attention only to the softness of this carpet under her feet and the fine paintings in this hall. Not those of home. That way led to madness.  
  
"Here we are," said Marlyn eventually, opening a large wooden door with a brass handle. It led to a large room full of people, and on the opposite side, there was no wall at all—it was open to the ball room.  
  
"Marlie!" cried one of the people in the closest to the door as they entered. A dark-haired man in black waved toward the sharp-faced young woman and walked toward them. He carried a lute, and Clarisse remembered Rosemary saying that Marlyn knew a few lute-players "who certainly…" did something. The princess grinned and caught the blonde woman's eye; she grinned back and held a finger to her mouth, cautioning Clarisse not to say anything about it.  
  
"And who are your friends here? Ah, Rosemary, I see, and…a new face? Who is this?" The man in black looked at Clarisse inquiringly; she was surprised to hear he had a slight Verbonyan accent.  
  
"This is Dahlia, Henri; she's a kitchen worker. She was hired at the winter palace and came here about a month ago. Dahlia, this is my friend Henri. He's the conductor of the musicians here," explained Marlyn, gesturing to the fifteen or so people sitting around the room. The princess nodded and smiled.  
  
"Pleased to meet you, sir."  
  
"Henri, please. Marlyn is making me sound more important than I really am. Mostly I just play along. And you are from Verbonya, are you not? I'd recognize that drawl anywhere!"  
  
"I lived right on the border," she replied, which was more or less true. Henri nodded, satisfied with the reply.  
  
"Well, it will be nice to know one of my countrywomen live here as well, no? But I will have to talk to you later; I have a job to do." He bowed slightly. "And I think I will get a chance to talk to you later, too, Marlie?" His smile, this time, had a different quality to it, one that made Clarisse decide to saunter off toward the edge of gallery, to look down into the room below, which was still unoccupied by guests. There were only a few servants, putting the last touches on the decorations. Even still, it was a beautiful place.  
  
The room was two very tall stories tall, and very wide; it had to be. The floor was of gold-veined white marble and the walls were covered in textured golden paper that practically glowed in the light of the gigantic chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Large mirrors were placed every so often on the walls to add even more light to the room, and a row of fifteen- foot window-doors lined on wall, showing a large terrace and a sky full of stars. The chandelier drew the princess's eyes up the ceiling again, and she noticed something she hadn't before; a mural was painted across the entirety of it, showing…she squinted slightly…it seemed to be a map of the night sky, with the constellations drawn in as what they symbolized, rather than the actual stars. A pale, luminous maiden stood at one edge of the ceiling, hand reaching down to touch a swan. She supposed her to be the moon, because at the opposite end of the room a golden young man—the sun?—was reaching toward her. Clarisse stared at the paintings, entranced, until the performers behind her started playing. She jumped slightly, startled, and looked down. The guests were starting to enter, and the Twins came to stand by the edge with her.  
  
"You were looking at the mural, weren't you?" asked Marlyn. "It's beautiful. I think its my favorite part of the room. The wallpaper must have cost a fortune, and mirrors that big must be horrendously expensive, but the painting is gorgeous. Not gaudy in the least bit."  
  
"Speaking of gaudy," commented Rosemary, "Wait until you see some of the things the nobles are wearing. Milady's dress is actually rather tasteful, this time, but some of her friends…I heard that Lord Andrei is going to be wearing canary yellow. Can you believe that? He's going to clash horribly with the decorations." She giggled.  
  
"You'll have to tell me who everyone is," said Clarisse mournfully, watching more and more people enter. Everyone below-stairs was always talking about this lady or that lord, and she never had any idea who they were speaking of.  
  
"Wait until everyone's here, then we'll point them out. Though it is kind of hard to see them well from up here." Marlyn leaned over the edge precariously and Rosemary pulled her back quickly.  
  
"Ah! Marlyn, don't! It makes my stomach twist just to watch you."  
  
"You're no fun, Rosie. Remember when we climbed up the ivy to the second floor, once? Now that was bad. I'm perfectly safe here, though."  
  
"Excuse me? I don't…" They argued on that tangent for sometime, so Clarisse turned around to look at the players behind her. She saw four lutes, not including Henri who was conducting, three recorders, two flutes, a harpsichord player, someone using a tiny set of symbols, a cellist, and a few horn players. The song they were playing had an interesting tune that she had never heard before. It was surprisingly complex, but she was able to hum along with the melody after a few moments. It ended after about five minutes; then they started a more familiar song; a minuet. Clarisse turned back to the ball room and saw people dancing. She studied the figures intently.  
  
"Alright, then—who is the woman in the peacock green dress? She looks pretty important, with that expensive fabric and gold in her hair."  
  
"Over by the windows, standing with three others? That is Lady Magda, a duchess, and in the running for queen, if you believe the gossip."  
  
Clarisse's eyes widened.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Well, she may be in the running but I don't think she'll win. She's very quiet, though pretty. Now, if you'll look toward the tables, where they're setting the food, you'll see a plump young woman in purple…"  
  
"Don't be mean, Marlyn!"  
  
"I'm not! I'm just stating the facts, Rosie. Anyway, that's Adelaide, an earl's daughter. She's a wonderful person, really, though a bit over- fond of sweetmeats. I hear the king dances with her quite often at gatherings—of course, he's had a cold for the past few days, so he won't be here tonight."  
  
"You forgot Lady Ona," remarked Rosemary mildly. Marlyn smacked herself in the forehead.  
  
"Of course! Alright, where is she?" Marlyn scanned the crowd for her. Clarisse looked too, though she had no idea what to look for. Marlyn pointed to the middle of the room, where people were dancing.  
  
"See the short woman, with the dark blue dress and flaming red hair? She's was in the exact middle a moment ago, but she's moving."  
  
"What about her?"  
  
"She's visiting from Valaik, on our western border. His Majesty is supposed to be quite taken with her, and it would be a politically wise match. She's a king's niece."  
  
"Oh. What about Lady Marionetta and her fiancé? This ball is for them, right?"  
  
Rosemary smiled, shaking her head.  
  
"I can't believe we forgot her. I guess she's pretty commonplace to us by now, so we don't think to point her out to others. She standing by the doorway, greeting stragglers. Lord Filip should be there too. See, they're wearing matching clothes, sage green. How precious." The blonde young woman's tone was dry.  
  
Clarisse gazed down at the dancers again, searching for another interesting figure. Her eyes alighted on a young man standing near Lady Ona.  
  
"Wow."  
  
"What?" asked Marlyn.  
  
"See the man in brown by Lady Ona? He's beautiful." She pointed toward the right spot and Marlyn leaned forward again to get a better look. Her face twisted into a scowl.  
  
"That, my dear, is His Majesty's younger brother, Marius. He's a wild one, getting into trouble constantly. The king would do well to marry him off to some foreign princess, so he won't have to deal with him for the rest of his life." Marlyn turned her gaze toward Clarisse and looked at her thoughtfully. She squirmed uncomfortably under the other woman's stare.  
  
"You'd do well to stay clear of him, though I don't know when you'd ever run into him. But, you never know, and I might as well warn you if you plan to work here for any length of time. You're not a plain woman, Dahlia; in fact, you're absolutely gorgeous. You should remember that, and be more careful who you talk to because of it. The prince isn't the only one to worry about."  
  
"I can take care of myself."  
  
"Yes, I'm inclined to think that you can."  
  
They were silent for a long time after that, watching the bright colorful mass below them twirl around the room. They stayed until the last dance, listening to the haunting melody that traditionally signaled the end of such gatherings, even in Verbonya. Afterward, Rosemary and Clarisse went back to their room alone; Marlyn stayed behind to talk with Henri, as promised. The princess wondered sourly if Marlyn ought not be careful as well. 


	3. Part Three--Ups and Down

As resentful of Marlyn's advice as she may have been (though Clarisse had become a much nicer person during her months in the kitchens, she still did not take what she thought of as patronizing very well), the princess and her two new roommates became close friends before very long. The trio wasn't inseparable, as the duo of Rosemary and Marlyn was, but Clarisse was content with that. She had…friends. That was enough for her at the moment.  
  
When it really came down to it, the Twins were probably the ideal people for Clarisse to become close to. They were extremely friendly, easy to talk to, and knew everything there was to know about life in the palace at Marit—and if they didn't know something, they had contacts that did. The princess had been very amused to discover their information network. They didn't look at all like her father's spymaster, but the seriousness with which they regarded their gossip equaled his. If one ever hoped to rise in the palace, Rosemary had told Clarisse soberly, one must be on top of everything. Marlyn had nodded her agreement with a solemn face. This had been too much for Clarisse.  
  
"I can understand how this stuff can entertain you, but what real use can it be?" she inquired, after a prolonged fit of sniggering behind her hand. Rosemary turned to look at Marlyn, and Marlyn turned to look at Rosemary. Then they both raised their eyes to the ceiling hopelessly.  
  
"This coming from the kitchen helper who belongs to a caste system more complicated than the Maritian line of inheritance. Alright, Mistress Second-level Thingamijig-assistant…"  
  
"That would be second-level-assistant Dahlia of Kitchen Three, Section Four…"  
  
"Whatever. Anyways, back to what I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted. Picture this: Lady Jane of Helias is coming to take tea with Lady Marionetta. You are charged with laying out her clothes for the occasion, and you alone, without any input from Lady Marionetta. What would you do, Dahlia?"  
  
She shrugged. "Reach into the proper section of her wardrobe and pick out a nice afternoon dress in a shade that flatters her?"  
  
"Maybe. But what if you know that Lady Jane is the, er, fiancée of the Earl of So-and-So, extremely conceited, and likely to introduce Lady Marionetta to the Earl's beautiful younger brother if she liked Marionetta?"  
  
"Isn't Lady Marionetta engaged?"  
  
"That's not the point! The point is, if you knew that, you would pick out a dress that milady doesn't look her best in, so Lady Jane would be flattered that Marionetta doesn't look as well as she, and take a fancy to the poor plain girl."  
  
"That's a bunch of nonsense," replied Clarisse, who had dressed in flattering clothes no matter who she was seeing that day.  
  
"No, that's the way for a ladies' maid to be promoted. She needs to be knowledgeable, discreet, and clever. A little flattery doesn't hurt either." Marlyn smiled and preened a little herself. Rosemary snorted, a very odd noise to be hearing out of gentle blonde Rosemary. Marlyn stood up a little straighter, very clearly ignoring her friend.  
  
"Now, what would you do if milady was invited to the aforesaid Lady Jane's apartments for tea later on along with several others—one of which is the Earl's younger brother?"  
  
"Would this be the beautiful younger brother, or the ugly tactless one they keep locked in the closet?" asked Clarisse, enjoying the game. This time Rosemary laughed outright and Marlyn sniffed.  
  
"If you listened to the gossip, then you would know, wouldn't you? So, if it's the proper brother, what sort of dress would you pick?"  
  
"A dashing blue one in the latest fashion that would compliment her eyes and show off her figure to the best advantage?"  
  
"Ah hah! Yes! Now do you understand?"  
  
"I suppose, but it still seems like nonsense to me."  
  
"Barbarian."  
  
"Huh."  
  
Marlyn crossed her arms and sat down on the bed, the corners of her mouth pulled down in a way that suggested she was hiding a smile. Rosemary leaned over, patted the dark-haired woman on the arm consolingly, and turned to speak to the princess.  
  
"It really is a great deal of fun. Think of it as a spy network stretched out across the entire palace, all reporting to one spymaster who then turns the information over to his helpers. They then analyze what's been collected and choose the best course for their domain."  
  
"Who is the spymaster here?"  
  
"Well, I lied. Each area has one. The ladies' maids, the butlers, the washerwomen, the stablehands, the courts artists and musicians, even the kitchen workers. What goes on abovestairs must influence what goes one downstairs, so we can adapt to the circumstances above us."  
  
"That's nonsense," said Clarisse for the third time, more than a little incredulous of the importance her friends were putting on unreliable hearsay.  
  
"Well, we'll see."  
  
"Oh, whatever. I give up; I'm too hungry to go on arguing on an empty stomach."  
  
Clarisse walked over to the door and pushed it open. Her two roommates followed her into the hallway and ran to catch up with her, letting the door swing shut behind them.  
  
"You two have kept me talking so long, I'll be surprised if there's any breakfast left. Even then, we'll have to eat fast so as not to be late."  
  
"Worrywart," said Rosemary affectionately. "There'll be plenty of food today. I'd be more worried about finding anywhere to sit."  
  
"Why do you say that?"  
  
The answer became clear when the kitchen worker and the two maids arrived in the mess hall; there was an extra table set up, but the place was still unusually full of people, some in livery that Clarisse hadn't seen before.  
  
"What's going on?" she asked curiously as they received their portions of porridge and looked around the room for friendly faces.  
  
"Hmph. My point is proven. If you had listened to anything the servants have been talking about for weeks, you would have known a famous court composer from Verbonya was visiting with his collection of musicians. All their servants—," Marlyn waved her arm around the room expansively, "Have gathered here. Thus the crowd."  
  
"More likely I haven't heard because I haven't been snuggling with Master Henri like some people," muttered Clarisse under her breath, not without a note of humor in her voice. Rosemary elbowed her in the side; Marlyn, who had been surveying the room, looked over at the princess.  
  
"What was that?"  
  
"Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself."  
  
"If you say…oh, look, there's Kate and Gentian. Come on, you two, let's go sit over there."  
  
Marlyn strode toward to back of the room, where two people (one in the clothing of a ladies' maid and one dressed like a footman) were sitting. Clarisse didn't know the two very well, so she slid onto the bench next to Rosemary and ate her porridge in silence. After listening to the other four chatter amiably for a few moments, something dawned on her. A Verbonyan court musician? Verbonyan? Court? Servants from the Verbonyan court…? The princess swept her gave around the room surreptitiously.  
  
"Hey, Marlyn," she said during a lull in the conversation, "Who is this composer again?" She did her best to sound casual.  
  
"I don't know the name. What about you Gentian?"  
  
Gentian, a stolid young man who could have been Rosemary's cousin, cocked his head to one side thoughtfully before speaking.  
  
"Let's see. If I remember correctly, his proper title would be Maestro Guillaume Benedit…affectionately referred to as Benny by his troupe. I hear he came from Verbonya originally, but just became the official court composer a few months ago. I don't know why he's going on tour now. Not very loyal of him."  
  
"Oh." Clarisse let out a mental sigh, but her relief was short lived. Maybe Guillaume Benedit won't recognize me, she thought, but some of the servants he brought along might. When she took her leave from her friends a few minutes later and retreated to the kitchens, she kept her face toward the floor and one eye searching for new faces. She got to the kitchens undetected, but tired. And there, in the kitchen, she saw people who weren't normally there. People who talked in melodious Verbonyan accents.  
  
"This is not happening," muttered the runaway princess vehemently, tying an apron around her. The second level assistant-in-charge approached her, a slate in one hand.  
  
"What did you say, Dahlia?"  
  
"Nothing," she replied in a tone verging on a snarl. The assistant-in- charge raised an eyebrow. She hadn't heard Dahlia like this in months.  
  
"I hope so, because we have a heavy work load today. His Majesty's steward is intent on impressing Maestro Benedit with our cuisine, so we'll be cranking out the delicacies today. Besides that, His Highness the Prince has set down an order for 'something different' for his luncheon, God knows what that means. It's especially annoying since his 'something different' will have to feed fifteen of his best hunting friends as well as himself." She rolled her eyes expressively.  
  
"So what are my instructions?" inquired Clarisse shortly.  
  
"Make lots of lemon pudding. Lots and lots of it. Think two barrels full. And about fifty lemon tarts. Mik, Charis and Alben got here early and have other tasks. It's your job to recruit others to help you as everyone else comes in."  
  
The assistant-in-charge strode off. Clarisse glanced to her fellows of similar rank: Mik had three people helping her, Charis had five, and Alban had two. That left about thirteen not accounted for. She eyed the door; an unwary second level assistant's assistant chose that moment to walk through.  
  
"Oh, Alan," she called in a sweet sing-song voice. A look of terrified horror crossed Alan's face. He recognized the tone. He knew it meant Dahlia was in a bad mood. But as an assistant's assistant, he was obliged to follow her orders.  
  
"Yes, Dahlia?" Alan, a fresh-faced boy of sixteen, crept over to her and bared his teeth in something resembling a relaxed smile.  
  
"Alan, my friend, we are going to make lots and lots of lemon pudding. Why don't you go get me that big bag of flour over there?" She pointed to an unopened sack standing precariously close to one of the Verbonyan servants. Alan wouldn't have understood why a word like 'precarious' would have applied, but he went and got it anyways.  
  
"Thank you, Alan. Now, let me ask you a question. If we wanted to make ten gallons of pudding, how many lemons would we need?" Her smile was large and bright. Alan thought for a moment. And another moment. He counted on his fingers and started to turn red.  
  
"Um…"  
  
"Wait just a moment. Margriet! Over here!" Clarisse called to a woman entering the kitchens. Alan was relieved when he realized someone else would be there to face Dahlia's nasty mood.  
  
  
  
Dahlia didn't go eat lunch in the hall as usual that day. Instead, she stayed in the kitchens to finish one last batch of pudding, munching on an extra lemon tart and a handful of almonds in place of bread and salt pork. After a morning of hard work and paranoia, she felt she deserved it. But it was worth it: she had ascertained she had never met any of the new servants in the kitchen face to face in Verbonya, so they probably wouldn't recognize her in her new role. Her best bet in escaping detection (because she knew now that servants, even the lowest scullery maids, were familiar with their nobles' faces) was to be pleasant, dress shabbily, and take care to speak as a Maritian servant would. And if anyone gave her queer looks, well, most people would believe a likely lie over an unlikely truth. They'd probably convince themselves that they hadn't seen more than a passing resemblance between their lost princess and Dahlia the enthusiastic cook. Hopefully.  
  
She did get up the courage to go to dinner in the hall as usual. Not that I had avoided it during lunch out of any fear, she reflected. There she found her friends saving a seat for her.  
  
"Dahlia! I can't believe you skipped lunch today—we had the most fantastic time!" declared Rosemary fervently when Clarisse joined them. She looked at the blonde woman inquiringly.  
  
"Some of the Verbonyans came over and talked with us," explained Marlyn, who, for once, seemed less excited than Rosemary.  
  
"What did they have to say?" asked the princess. She twisted a loose strand of black hair around her finger nervously and glanced around the room. She had made herself believe she hadn't been afraid, but now that she was out of the smoky kitchens and into the open hall, she felt horribly exposed.  
  
"They were really very nice people, and had some wonderful stories to tell. Verbonya seems much more exciting than plain old Marit."  
  
"Seemed kind of stuck-up to me," commented Marlyn.  
  
"What was wrong with them?" Clarisse was surprised at the sour tone in the normally good-natured woman's voice, but mostly she wanted to divert the conversation from such topics as "interesting Verbonyan stories".  
  
"They insulted our minstrels. It was really very rude, though they had the grace to look embarrassed after saying it."  
  
"They showed less respect for Henri's music than he deserves," said Rosemary in a loud stage whisper, leaning across Marlyn to speak to Clarisse. Marlyn started to look affronted, then shook her head and smiled reluctantly. She pushed Rosemary back toward her own seat.  
  
"But they weren't nearly as rude as you, Rosie, I must admit. And they did have good stories. I suppose they were tolerable, though they have horrible taste."  
  
"You are so funny sometimes, dear. Henri Lussier can protect himself, and I'm sure he will if needs be. Now that's enough on that topic." Rosemary patted Marlyn's arm with a motherly smile and leaned forward to get a better look at Clarisse from around the dark-haired woman in between them.  
  
"Now, Dahlia, you're Verbonyan—what do you know about their royal family?"  
  
Clarisse, whose mouth was full of bread, almost choked. She caught herself before her mouthful went down the wrong pipe, and swallowed as though she hadn't nearly gasped down her dinner. Luckily, her companions hadn't seemed to notice.  
  
"Um. The queen's dead, and that's about all." Clarisse smoothed her hair back nonchalantly, but her mind was racing in a stream of nearly incomprehensible words: NoNoNoNoDon'tSayItDon't…don't say it, she thought rapidly. Rosemary refused to hear the silent request and went on inexorably.  
  
"You are a very sad person, Dahlia. Did you stay locked up in your house all day, that you never heard anything? Really, a scandal like that…"  
  
Clarisse wondered what she would do if Rosemary were to tell her the story of the Verbonyan princess's—Clarisse's—disappearance.  
  
Why does hearing the story make me so edgy? she asked herself. Will they see the truth in my face? How could they?  
  
"Hmm. Well, they aren't a very happy family, apparently. The royalty rarely get to choose their own spouses, but the queen—I think her name was Abigail—was foreign and didn't adapt well to her new home." The maid leaned closer to Clarisse. "They said that she hadn't come of her own free will. That she had been stolen, you know? They told me not to repeat that, it was only speculation, but what's the harm in saying it to you?"  
  
"Anyways, she didn't adapt well. Everyone knows that the King of Verbonya isn't a very nice man, either, so she probably had a bad time of it. Abigail had been queen for about year when she became pregnant with the princess. Even before than she had been reclusive, but after, the public rarely saw her." Rosemary shook her head sadly.  
  
This wasn't the story Clarisse had expected to hear. She didn't like the way it was going; she had never heard the story of her mother's death before, so it left her with a cold feeling in her stomach as she realized what event the story was leading to.  
  
My mother's name was Ashbala, not Abigail, she thought vaguely. Why did everyone call her Abigail? Who told me her name was really Ashbala? I can't remember.  
  
"She lived to birth the baby—they said she was a strong woman to begin with, and that's the only reason she did live to see her daughter. She had dwindled through the months to a fraction of the person she had once been. One woman said her mother had served the queen, and said that Abigail had been almost arrogant when she first arrived. But not after the birth. Anyways, she had hardly been recovering a day when the king called for her presence. She sent away the servants, saying she would dress herself, that apparently she was strong enough to do that if the court doctors were allowing her out of her own bed to go to her husband's. She may have dressed herself, but she didn't go—she locked the door and wouldn't open it, no matter how hard her maids pounded on the door. They feared she had fainted, rising so soon after giving birth."  
  
Every shred of Clarisse's attention was focused on Rosemary's words.  
  
"The king was furious, ranting about disobedient wives and demanding the door be opened. That evening, a locksmith forced the door open and a wardrobe was dragged out of the doorway. God knows how Abigail, weak from childbirth and homesickness, was able to get it there in the first place. But get into the room they did."  
  
"The servants all thought she had fainted, as I said, or had fallen and gotten hurt. Something related to her health, to the birth. But the king was closer to the truth. When they opened the door, they found her lying on her bed, stone dead. The doctors said she had probably been dead for, well, hours. Each of her wrists had been sliced open with a letter opener from her desk." Rosemary shook her head sadly. "You have to wonder how bad her life must have gotten that she would do that."  
  
Clarisse was silent, but her friends couldn't discern how pale she had gone, under the coffee-with-cream color of her skin.  
  
She supposed that she had asked about her mother long ago, when she had been young. Indeed, she could remember a few instances now that she thought of it. But she hadn't thought of it in years. The nursemaids would never tell her about her mother or how she died—except someone had told Clarisse that her foreign mother's foreign name was Ashbala, and had been traded in for the more Verbonyan Abigail. Who was it? she asked herself. Whenever she had asked her nursemaids about the queen, they would distract her with something else, like a toy or a dress or a sweetmeat. After awhile she had stopped asking and become accustomed to such treats. She would wail if she did not have them.  
  
What a horrid child I must have been, she thought wryly, remembering the tantrums and sulking of her younger days. Then she wondered whether or not her caretakers had done a good thing, by not telling the young Princess Clarisse how her mother had died. But now she knew, and she pushed the knowledge to the back of her head so she might concentrate on other things.  
  
I can cry later, she chided herself; if I can cry at all over a woman I cannot remember and never knew. But now, Marlyn is talking, and I cannot let them know that Rosemary has told the story of my mother.  
  
"…is a happier story, I think. Or at least, I like to think the end is happy," Marlyn said, with a smile.  
  
"The princess led a quiet life until she was seventeen, they said. She was a snobby thing, though I can hardly blame her, with a name like she has. Clarisse Hermen-something, something…"  
  
"Clarisse Hermengart Rosemonde Dalialah of Verbonya," said Clarisse absently. Then, thinking it would not hurt: "I was named after her. Dahlia, Dalialah. Dahlia is easier to say, though."  
  
"That it is. Well, anyways, such a horrible name would ruin anyone's temper, I think Her father tried to marry her off when she was sixteen, but she insulted all her suitors so much that they left in disgust. Our King Josef didn't go, luckily, despite her supposed beauty. But her beauty wasn't enough to get her a husband, so she remained unmarried. Her father—the queen's husband who was less than a good man—decided to take things into his own hands, and found a horrible old man, some sort of necromancer, or a troll, to marry her. The Verbonyans who told us the story weren't too specific. I don't think they knew exactly."  
  
"Anyways, she became betrothed to a man even more horrible than her father. She didn't like this at all, and was determined to avoid the marriage. She demanded several gifts from him before she was married; gifts that she thought would be impossible to find. A gown as golden as the sun, a gown as silvery-pale as the moon, and a gown as shining as the stars on a clear night. But the normally miserly king was unwavering in his desire to get rid of his troublesome daughter. He hired the best seamstresses and weavers in the continent to fulfill her requests. He gave her the finished gowns days before the date of her wedding."  
  
She left out the coat, Clarisse said to herself. Thank goodness, or else they might recognize the ragged thing hiding in our wardrobe for what it once was.  
  
"She was desperate, though not as desperate as her mother had been. For that night, she disappeared from the castle. No one thought that she had killed herself, because she had brought her gifts with her, as well as a few small trinkets. No one has heard of her since. They say her betrothed was furious with her father, but I don't know what happened to him."  
  
"I'd like to think she's safe in a cottage somewhere in the woods now," said Rosemary cheerfully, "With a herd of goats and enough work that she's lost her haughtiness. Maybe she fell in love with a woodsman, and they live alone with the animals. But I do hope she's happy now."  
  
She is happy. Clarisse wanted to say it. She's happier than she thought she ever could be, with flour-covered hands and a patched skirt. She has friends, though no woodsman-lover. But that is enough for her. Life is good now.  
  
  
  
  
  
The princess's fear of the visiting Verbonyans faded as the days since their arrival passed into weeks. She didn't talk to them more than she had to (which was not often at all) and they never noticed anything familiar about her, though nearly everyone knew the story of her escape. Eventually she got used to them and didn't mind their constant presence below-stairs.  
  
By that time, Clarisse had been working in the kitchens for nearly eight months, and spring had turned to summer and then midsummer. The kitchens only got hotter and hotter as the days got longer, and the temperature continued rising even after the days had reached their longest and began shortening again. Clarisse bore it with clenched teeth, pinned-up hair, no petticoat, and a great deal of sweat. But some people couldn't bear it at all, and it was then that Clarisse received (in her opinion) the greatest opportunity of her life.  
  
It was a particularly hot afternoon, two days before the midsummer festival. The heat in the kitchens was sweltering and the entire place smelled of spoiling milk and sweat. Every single door in the place was opened, in hopes that a cool breeze would come wafting through; in truth, the only things that came wafting through were large black flys. That day, Alekso snapped.  
  
It started off innocently enough. Alekso, one of the first-level assistants, was ordered to make a batch of his new iced punch for the king during the long, hot afternoon. Alekso had invented a new flavor of this drink recently, and was pleased that the king enjoyed it so much. He took out the bottles of expensive liquor used in it, he ordered a lackey to bring him fresh fruit (lemons, oranges, and pineapple) and he went to work. It was nothing special, and no one paid much attention.  
  
Well, it was a very hot day and Alekso started drinking some of the expensive liquor he was using—just a little bit, poured into a large mug. The problem was, he had many servings of a little bit, which soon added up to quite a lot. So he was slightly drunk while mixing up the punch. Still, no one paid much attention.  
  
Finally he had finished the main part of it, and called for a large bag of ice. One of the lower level kitchen-helpers, a scrawny boy no more than ten, went walking out of the kitchens toward the ice cellar, some distance away. Alekso waited impatiently until the boy returned. He gave him the bag of ice and went off on other errands.  
  
But there was a problem. When Alekso opened up the bag, he found that the crushed ice had melted completely. This irritated him, but he called for some more relatively politely. A servant went off at a jog toward the ice cellar and returned a few minutes sooner than the other boy had. But once again, when the bag was given to Alekso, the ice had melted completely.  
  
Alekso was now more than mildly irritated, and more than slightly intoxicated. He yelled for some more ice and another young boy went off to fetch some, this time at a dead run. Alekso was a large, red-faced man with fists the size of hams. He was feared in the kitchen rather more than any of the other first-level assistants and the boy didn't want the gathering anger directed toward him.  
  
The boy returned even sooner than the last one, as everyone in the kitchen noticed (for the sight of a drunk first-level assistant, bellowing for frozen ice, was enough to get the attention of any kitchen worker). And, unfortunately, the boiling hot trip between the ice cellar and the kitchens had melted the ice down to water again.  
  
This time Alekso roared, and everyone stood still.  
  
"I cannot work like this! I am a master! I refuse to work in a hot, stinking kitchen, even for a king, with incompetent fools assisting me and no ice to be found! I quit! I bloody, stinking quit!" He swayed slightly as he said it and the words sloshed a bit around the edges. "And you, boy--," he leveled a large finger at the trembling boy holding the ice bag, "You…"  
  
"You will stop your ranting right this moment, man!" cried Miriam from across the room. She could roar just as loudly as Master Alekso, and did. Alekso stopped midsentence. "It's hard enough surviving the heat and stink without listening to drunken idiots yelling at the tops of their lungs! You better quit, because if you don't then you. Are. Fired." Her hands were on her wide hips and her black eyes were narrowed in a glare concentrated directly on Alekso. Clarisse, watching from the side, moved back into the shadows. Miriam's fury, even focused on another person, was a frightening thing to see.  
  
"What is this ruckus about?" growled another voice from the doorway. Every pair of eyes in the room zipped to its source. Constantin the Head Cook stood there, arms crossed and a look of fierce aggravation on his face. Both Miriam and Alekso started talking at once.  
  
"One at a time, please." He spit out the words from between clenched teeth. After hearing the entire story, he turned to Alekso.  
  
"Please, then, leave. I will not put up with this sort of thing anymore." Clarisse remembered that this wasn't the first time the first-level assistant had gotten drunk at work. "Gather up your things and get out of this castle. You are fired."  
  
Alekso started to speak, but Constantin cut him off with a raised hand.  
  
"Out," he repeated in a hard voice. "Now." Alekso left in a huff.  
  
The kitchens were now short one first-level assistant.  
  
Clarisse repeated the story to her friends that night. They cringed sympathetically at Miriam and Constantin's wrath. They had met and were frightened of Miriam, though they had never seen the latter person.  
  
The next morning, as she walked toward her customary workstation with the other second-level assistants, Miriam intercepted the princess halfway.  
  
"Yes?" she asked nervously, afraid she had done something wrong.  
  
"The Head Cook would like you to report to his office, Dahlia. Hurry up. You do know where it is, don't you?"  
  
Clarisse, surprised, nodded. Miriam pushed her in the proper direction.  
  
"Then off with you, girl."  
  
Clarisse strode off out the door again and down the hall a few feet, faltering as she reached the office door. She knocked at it feebly, barely brushing her knuckles against the hard wood. There was no response, so she knocked louder.  
  
"Come in," called rough voice from inside. She opened the door and poked her head through, followed by the rest of her body a moment later.  
  
Don't be so shy, she scolded herself. She wondered what she had been called in for, and remembered the incident from the previous day. Her heart made an excited leap as she stopped in front of a desk cluttered with receipts and lists.  
  
"Oh, Dahlia." The voice became softer and the Head Cook nodded toward a chair against the wall. She sat down.  
  
"Miriam's told me a lot about you. Said you only came to work for us about eight months ago, knowing nothing about cooking." He studied her with pale blue eyes, his head tilted slightly to one side.  
  
"Yes…" replied Clarisse, cautiously. Constantin continued.  
  
"Now you're a second-level assistant? That's quite an accomplishment in such a short amount of time."  
  
"I'm a fast learner, I suppose." Her tone was defensive.  
  
"Quite a fast learner, indeed. Miriam says you're a very good cook, better than many of the other second-levelers who've been cooking their entire lives."  
  
"As you most likely know, a first-level assistant position has just opened up." His mouth twisted into a wry smile. Clarisse watched him, wide-eyed. "I was wondering if you would like to be promoted to first-level assistant's assistant. It wouldn't be a very fun job for a while—the first- levelers can be quite ornery, not to mention conceited, and you'd be subordinate to them. But you would also be an apprentice who would eventually become a first-level assistant. Judging from how long it took you to go from spit-turner to second-level, it won't take you more than…what, three months, to learn everything we have to teach you." He smiled more pleasantly this time. Clarisse swallowed hard.  
  
"You're asking me to be a first-level assistant's assistant? Seriously?"  
  
"Well, yes."  
  
"Sir, I would have begged to be promoted." Her voice was disbelieving, putting an emphasis on 'begged'. "Of course I'll take the job!"  
  
"Perfect. My problem is solved." He rose and Clarisse followed suit. He shook her hand firmly and handed her a scrap of paper.  
  
"To tell the truth, I'd rather thought you would agree. Tale this to Marcell—you know him, don't you? Yes? He will get you started."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
"No, thank you. I'm getting a new assistant out of it, and a good one."  
  
  
  
Clarisse was whistling when she returned to her room that night, a trick she had learned a few weeks before. Rosemary raised her eyebrows as the princess entered and shut the door behind her.  
  
"What're you so happy about?"  
  
"Guess." Clarisse did her best to look enigmatic and failed miserably. Marlyn put aside a mass of cloth she had been sewing on and looked up, interested.  
  
"Did you find a gold coin on the floor?" asked Rosemary.  
  
"I wish."  
  
"Have you finally learn all the words to 'Adriana and the Goatherd', bought a silk hair ribbon from a traveling tinker, or eaten an entire cherry pie?" she tried again.  
  
"No, no, and the last one would give me a stomachache."  
  
"Have you been stealing sips from the wine cellar?" inquired Marlyn with a mischievous smile. "Did you learn how to whistle? Did you find the love of your life?"  
  
"Firstly, they keep the wine cellar locked. Secondly, I already knew how to whistle, and thirdly, I found my true love a long time ago: cooking!"  
  
"Then I give up."  
  
"Me too!"  
  
Clarisse grinned the same wide silly grin as when she had been name a second-level assistant.  
  
"I got promoted! First-level assistant's assistant!" She dropped next to Rosemary on her bed.  
  
"Congratulations, I think. I'm not quite sure what that is, but it must be a good thing if you're so happy." Marlyn patted her on the arm and Rosemary cheered quietly.  
  
"That means that someday I'll be promoted to first-level assistant, second only to the Head Cook himself."  
  
This time Marlyn looked impressed. "Wow, you'll be pretty high up, as things go."  
  
"Yes! It's fantastic! I get to do all the fun things now." She sighed and leaned back, visions of marzipan and cashew-stuffed peacock dancing through her head. She remained silent for a while, listening to the others' chatter, until her eyes alighted on the cloth Marlyn was working on.  
  
"What's that?" she said, pointing. Marlyn held it out for Clarisse to see.  
  
"It will be—very soon, I hope—a dress to wear to the midsummer festival."  
  
"Oh." The princess eyed it jealously; it was pale green linen, with creamy lacy bordering the low neckline and the elbow-length sleeves. "Will you be working at the nobles' party, then?"  
  
"No, silly! We normal people have our very own festival in the city. Everyone dresses up nicely and goes out into the streets. There'll be peddlers and stalls of everything imaginable, from perfume to silk scarves to candied nuts and spiced tea. Jugglers, musicians, puppeteers and storytellers come from all around. The working folk—and even some of the high-class merchants who think they're just as good as the nobles—carouse until dawn, when everyone conveniently forgets what they've done the previous night and goes to sleep. It's great fun."  
  
"That's why it would be such good luck to have found a gold coin; you'd be able to buy a whole lot at the festival," explained Rosemary after Marlyn fell silent.  
  
"It sounds wonderful," replied Clarisse.  
  
"And that's not all; there's dancing in park, and contests of all sorts, and plays in the open air. It's the best holiday of the year, even better than midwinter."  
  
"Marlyn got second place last year in the singing contest," put in Rosemary. "The prizes are great, so it really pays off. They gave away some beautiful blue silk for first place in juggling last year, so I'm going to enter this time."  
  
"Juggling?" The princess's voice was skeptical.  
  
"You should see her, Dahlia," said Marlyn. "It's really amazing."  
  
"Juggling. I would never have thought."  
  
"Well, you'll have to come watch me at the festival then, won't you?"  
  
  
  
The next two days passed by in a blur of activity, until finally it was the day of the festival. Clarisse slept long and late that morning, luxuriating in the knowledge that the sun was up and she was still in bed. The day before, her coworkers had patiently explained to her why she didn't need to work that day. Everything ran on a skeleton crew of servants that were either foreign (and didn't celebrate, like the visiting Verbonyans) or had volunteered beforehand to work for extra pay. Clarisse had been delighted. The Twins and she had vowed not to rise before the bell tower struck nine that morning. Even still, it was hard to rise from her warm bed and touch the chilly stone floor. Rosemary, with her infinite energy, urged her two friends out of bed.  
  
"Come on, you laggards! If we don't get going soon, we'll miss all the best bargains. Not to mention meeting up with everyone else before they leave." She rested reproachful eyes on Marlyn, who slid onto the floor and up to her feet with a muttered grumble. The princess sighed and sat up. She hadn't slept like that in over half a year.  
  
"Oh, Rosemary, you're horrible. This water is freezing, and the floor is freezing, and my hands are freezing, and I don't even want to think about how cold it will be dressing…" Marlyn moaned, after splashing herself tentatively with water.  
  
"Just wait till we get outside," warned Clarisse. "It'll be plenty warm for you. You'll be begging for that water."  
  
"Well, right now I'm cold and that's all I can think about." She tied on her petticoats and other underthings before sliding her new green dress over her head. Its jade color complimented her olive skin and dark brown hair perfectly.  
  
"You have no right to complain with a dress like that, Mari, dear," scolded Rosemary. She pulled on her own gown, the one she had worn to watch the ball so long ago: pale blue cotton, rather light for the winter but perfect for such hot weather.  
  
Now where have I seen that shade of blue recently? thought Clarisse to herself. She couldn't remember for the world.  
  
"Now what should I wear?" asked the princess, finally rising from bed. She poked her head into her section of the wardrobe they shared and looked around. She didn't have any festival-worthy dresses like the Twins did; just a nicely made workday dress that didn't have any patches or mends yet, like the others. She felt bad about borrowing any more clothes from her friends, so she laid that one out on her bed. After washing with the admittedly cold water from the washbasin, she laced up her dress with an inward sigh. The part of her that loved pretty clothes had never died after she ran away. Turning around, she found Rosemary studying her intently.  
  
"We must get you some nice material today," she proclaimed. "Maybe if we can find some pale turquoise to match your eyes, or maybe burgundy. Yes, I think burgundy would look very fine on you."  
  
"How much do you think it would cost?" asked the other woman warily. Rosemary looked at Marlyn, who shrugged.  
  
"It depends what type of fabric, and the quality, and how well one bargains. But I think we might find some fine cotton, like Rosemary's, or even some lower quality linen like mine for an affordable price."  
  
"Ah. I've been saving my wages since I started working, since we're fed and boarded for free and I don't need much else. Do you think that would be enough?"  
  
Marlyn blinked rapidly, then stared. "You've been saving that long? My, that really makes me look bad. Dear, I think we can not only find you cloth with that, but lace and a nice lunch and supper. It'll be fine."  
  
"Or at least it will be fine if we hurry. We've dawdled long enough. Let's go!" Rosemary sounded impatient, so all three grabbed their coin purses, tied them into their pockets, and left.  
  
The day was going to be a scorcher, though perhaps not as blistering a day as when Alekso quit. The late-morning air was already muggy and on its way to be truly hot when they emerged into the sun. Rosemary sighed happily and strode down a path to the edge of the castle grounds, her two friends trailing behind her.  
  
"We aren't going to walk all the way to the city square, are we?" Clarisse's voice was uncertain; it was quite a ways to the center of the city, where the park was and the main portion of the performers and vendors set up business. Marlyn chuckled and shook her head.  
  
"No, we'll take the wagon. See—over there. Hurry up so we can get to it before it leaves!" They dashed toward the large wagon as fast as they could in their voluminous skirts. They were able to catch it just before it pulled away, full of servants off to the festival. Clarisse sat down—this wagon actually had benches—and caught her breath. She didn't have time to worry about her motion sickness before she and the Twins were greeted by acquaintances. After that she was occupied with the city itself, draped with flowers and ribbons and greenery in honor of the holiday.  
  
"It's pretty, isn't it?" commented a ladies' maid named Anna, looking out the back. Clarisse agreed.  
  
"Just wait until we get to the square. It's crowded as hell and dusty, but merchants come from all over the continent for this. Everybody's wares are spread out to for all to see, the smell of spices and perfume and flowers cover the city's normal scents…it's wonderful."  
  
"Just wait until nightfall," chuckled another maid. "The whole place is lit up with candles and torches, and everyone's dancing in the streets. That's when it gets interesting."  
  
"I don't know about that," said Rosemary breezily. "I like the shopping the best myself." Everyone smiled and the subject changed to wish lists, as perhaps Rosemary had intended. Before Clarisse knew it, the wagon had arrived at its destination and its passengers slid out merrily.  
  
"We'll see you girls later!" called Anna and her group of friends, merging with the crowd. The Twins waved to them and pulled Clarisse in a different direction. She couldn't help but feel as if she had missed something.  
  
"God, what do we do first?" Rosemary spun slowly, taking in the sights around her. They were standing on the side of a dusty street swarming with people. Across the street was the park, an enormous green in the center of the city; it too was full, though not to the extent of the streets. A line of stalls stood behind them, the vendors crying out their wares and beckoning passersby:  
  
"Fresh blackberry pies! Hot from the oven!"  
  
"Slippers! Boots! Leather or cloth, we've got 'em! Embroidery for the ladies—mistress, how about some nice new slippers for the dancing today?"  
  
"Almonds, dates, figs from Allorin! Candied pears! Sweetmeats of all kinds!"  
  
Clarisse was almost overwhelmed by the clashing noises, the bustle of brightly clad figures, the delicious—or merely exotic—smells fighting for dominance in the air. She dodged one urchin running through the throng, only to bump into the edge of a stall; the merchant was next to her immediately.  
  
"Ah, finally a lady worthy of my craftsmanship! See, look at this necklace, finest silver and dark red garnet—beautiful, yes? Or perhaps you were looking for a bracelet? I have three to match the necklace, and many others. Garnet, sapphire, turquoise and opal…"  
  
"Er," mumbled Clarisse, embarrassed, "I'm sorry, I can't…"  
  
"But I have the cheapest prices you'll see all morning, believe me! Why, Marco over there would charge half again my price for these earrings. The best deal here!"  
  
Clarisse started to move back, apologizing, when Marlyn grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away. Her dark eyes were dancing with laughter.  
  
"They'll eat you alive if you're not careful, Dahlia! Really—Maritian merchants are known for their cannibalism. Be wary of how close you get, and don't make eye contact unless you plan to buy something." She grinned widely and led Clarisse down the street, where Rosemary was waiting.  
  
"Don't even bother with the jewelry until this afternoon, Dahlia," said Rosemary as all three made their way down the street. "Buy then they'll be about ready to close and desperate to sell as much as they can first. Then the likes of us will finally be able to afford something."  
  
"What do we do in the meantime, then?" asked the princess curiously.  
  
"First, I am going to buy us all something sweet to eat, and then I think we'll stroll across to the park. There'll be all sorts of interesting—and free—things to do there."  
  
"Like the contests?"  
  
"Yes, and the minstrels and puppeteers and magicians."  
  
"Enough to entertain us until the sun goes down, but all the shops shut down at dusk, so we won't be able to stay there all day."  
  
The three young women meandered toward their destination leisurely, refusing to let the crowd push them along. It gave Clarisse the chance to absorb the hectic scene around her.  
  
She saw textile stalls, the different cloths spread out on the counter, and noted them so she could come back later; she saw merchants selling copper pots and pans from the east, merchants selling brilliantly- colored birds from the jungles far south, even a few selling finely carved wooden instruments—Marlyn made them stop go get a closer look, her eyes staring at the lutes and mandolins and pipes hungrily.  
  
"You really do love music, don't you?" realized Clarisse. Before, she thought that her fascination with music had come from her relationship with Henri.  
  
"I adore music," she replied with a sigh. "I always hung around the minstrels when I was small; my father was one until he got joint disease and couldn't play anymore. But my father and his friends would teach me in their spare time, to sing and to play harpsichord and mandolin." She fell silent, then started again tentatively. "It would be like a dream if I could play with the court musicians, but they don't accept women. Nobody does in this part of the world, not for such a high position. Though I think Henri might let me if he was allowed."  
  
She stared at the instruments a little longer. Them Marlyn shook herself and took Rosemary's and Clarisse's arms.  
  
"But I can always sing and I'm happy enough with that. Especially if it wins me a prize today." Her face turned mischievous again and they moved on.  
  
"Speaking of happy—there's Carla! Let's go!" Rosemary sped across the street to another stall where the smell of hot pastry wafted into the air. The princess breathed the familiar scent in deeply. Carla, whoever she was, made treats fit for the king. By the time Marlyn and Clarisse caught up with Rosemary, she already had three piping hot pies the size of saucers in her hand.  
  
"Mmm…just smell that! Carla has the blackberry pies in the entire festival; she's been here since I was a little girl."  
  
"Must you remind me?" asked Carla amiably, slipping Rosemary's money into her apron pocket. "It makes me feel ancient, to see people all grown up saying that!" Carla was an average sized woman a few years passed middle age; her brown hair was gray streaked and she squinted slightly, looking at her customers. Rosemary laughed and handed a pie to each of her friends.  
  
"You look wonderful, Carla, and your pies are as good as ever. We'll have to come back for some more later."  
  
"Aye, see that you do, and tell your mother I said hello!"  
  
They walked off again. Clarisse bit into her pie after it had cooled slightly.  
  
"Thif ting ith goot," she mumbled around a mouthful. She swallowed and tried again. "This thing is good."  
  
"I should hope so!" exclaimed Rosemary. "Carla used to work in the castle kitchens when she was our age and was friends with my mother. She left after she married, but she still knows how to cook!"  
  
  
  
The three wandered through the city all day, seeing that sights, listening to music, and even buying a few things along the way—Clarisse was delighted to find herself with yards and yards of burgundy cotton, despite its unwieldiness in its wrappings. It was accompanied by a bit of ivory lace, nestled in the center of the package for safekeeping.  
  
The Twins and Clarisse also stopped in the park to watch most of the contests, even participating in a few of them. The princess got to see Rosemary juggle for the first time and was suitably impressed, though the blonde woman didn't win a prize. Neither did Marlyn, despite her friends' cheering; she was beaten by three brothers from a village outside the city. None of them were older than fifteen, so Marlyn forgave them and clapped loudly when the won. Even still, Clarisse was disappointed that none of the contestants they had cheered for, in all of the competitions they had watched, had won.  
  
"Don't worry," replied Marlyn when Clarisse complained about this, saying that perhaps she was bad luck. "You just wait for this next one. And be glad that we haven't been betting on our favorites at all today."  
  
So the princess watched—they were just beginning another musical competition, this one instrumental and vocal together. She gazed at the stage from her seat on the grass for a quarter of an hour, listening to the commoners play songs popular at court, before she saw a familiar face and understood what Marlyn had said.  
  
Henri Lussier, the court composer and conductor, walked onto the stage with a lute in hand, looking cheerful and waving amiably to the crowd; the people started to boo when they realized exactly who it was.  
  
"No fair! He works for the toffs!" called out one annoyed voice. Henri took it in stride, sitting down as if he heard nothing. The crowd continued to boo until he started playing—the opening chords of 'Adriana and the Goatherd'.  
  
Now, 'Adriana and the Goatherd' was no normal song; it was an old favorite of the city and a legend at the same time. If one believed the stories, it had over fifty-three verses. No one living actually knew all of them, though if you traveled around a bit you could here different ones sung all over the city-state; just not all at the same time. But as Henri played and sang on it grew apparent that he planned to sing every last one of them, no matter how long it took or how bawdy and decidedly inappropriate it got. Clarisse's eyes got wider and wider as the song went on; Marlyn was sobbing with laughter at the look on her face and the song both. 'Adriana and the Goatherd' had first been written to mock a long-dead royal family and remained hilarious years later.  
  
By the time and exhausted Henri strummed the end on his lute, the crowd was loving him. He stood and bowed, his mouth too dry to speak, and walked offstage. After that, all the performances seemed weak in comparison.  
  
"I think he won," commented Rosemary in amazement as the last player finished. She was proven right when the judges filed onto the stage and, very solemnly, proclaimed Henri the winner. They handed him a mandolin made of glossy honey-colored wood, obviously an instrument of quality. Henri thanked them solemnly in reply, though he must've played on such things everyday at the castle. He left the stage and was lost in the ever-present throng for a few minutes. Clarisse and the Twins were standing and about to leave for supper when he emerged next to them.  
  
"You didn't believe me, did you, Marlie?" he asked. His eyes twinkled and Marlyn grinned broadly, as she so often did.  
  
"That was just amazing. Amazing."  
  
"Well, you won the bet anyways; you said the mob wouldn't drag me offstage." He held up the glossy mandolin and placed it into Marlyn's arms; she stared at it as if were about to eat her.  
  
"But…"  
  
"I think you need it more than I. But I need to go now; duty calls, though I don't see why that stuffy Verbonyan man can't take my place at court this once." He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I will see you later though." Then he walked off, leaving Marlyn standing there staring at the instrument in her arms. Clarisse was horribly afraid that the dark-haired woman was going to cry and Clarisse didn't think she could bear to see it. But Marlyn just sniffed loudly, wiped her eyes, and looked at the other two as if nothing had happened.  
  
"Should we go scrounge up something to eat now?"  
  
Rosemary and Clarisse exchanged a glance, but they didn't say anything. Or at least not about Marlyn's tears.  
  
"As much as I hate the thought of you leaving me behind, you've found yourself a good man, dear."  
  
"Oh, be quiet Rosie." Marlyn always got slightly annoyed whenever anyone commented on her love life, but this time her words were unaccompanied by a scowl. So they all walked off to Carla's booth again to eat supper. Marlyn held the mandolin in her arms all the way, like a mother carrying her baby.  
  
  
  
They ate leisurely, until finally the sun began to set in the sky. The Twins then dragged Clarisse down the street again (she was tired of walking and wouldn't get up on her own).  
  
"Don't get tired yet! There's still so much left. But first, masks. I can't believe we forgot." Rosemary's voice was far too cheery for Clarisse's mood.  
  
"Masks?"  
  
"Yes, masks! It's midsummer! Everyone has fun all day and parties all night. You can get away with just about everything tonight, because everyone wears masks once night falls. Don't they do anything like that in Verbonya? I know in Allorin the celebrate the spring equinox instead."  
  
"No…" said Clarisse. "Not that I remember, though some people had masquerade parties sometimes."  
  
"That's another kettle of fish all together. But anyways, nobody buys masks until the actual festival. It's a tradition, though I don't know why. We should have got some this morning while there was still a good choice." This time Marlyn spoke, as they stopped in front of a closing stall.  
  
"Wait! Sir, do you have anymore masks?" Rosemary halted him as he was rolling a curtain over the front.  
  
"Aye, about five or so left, lucky for you. You can have them half price, too—dun't see anyone else coming before I close up."  
  
"Thank you, sir. Here Clarisse, you go first. This is your first festival, so you can have the pick."  
  
Clarisse bent down to squint at them in the fading light. They were much more elaborate than she had imagined they would be, covered in feathers and glitter and even gilt. Among them all, though, she found one perfect for her.  
  
It was styled after a bird with silver and gold plumage, a golden beak sticking out where it would cover her nose. Two peacock feathers had been placed on each side, facing backwards to trail in its wearer's hair; they provided the only color besides the silver and gold—blue and green and turquoise like Clarisse's eyes.  
  
"That one." Against the Twins' protests, she paid for it with her own money; she still had plenty of it.  
  
Rosemary found a silver cat mask that covered only the top half of her face like the other ones. It had long whiskers and a blue nose. Marlyn's mask was a red fox, which stood out vividly next to her green dress. After they finished purchasing all of them, the three women stood still and put them on. Rosemary looked very un-Rosemary-like in hers, but Marlyn's seemed to fit her narrow face and clever mind.  
  
"Can you recognize me?" asked Clarisse playfully, striking a pose.  
  
"You are a totally different person," assured Marlyn.  
  
"Good. Now no one will catch me while I unleash havoc on the city. Let's get going; aren't you two going to force me to walk a few more miles before we go back to the castle?"  
  
"We might as well just stay here until the sun goes down. The crowd will find us eventually."  
  
The princess was skeptical, seeing how few people were on the street with them but followed her more experienced friends around anyways. They sat down on the curb and waited. In the early twilight, the city no longer seemed as active as it had in the morning. The street was practically empty; trash blew up and down the sides in the faint wind. Candles had been placed in all the windows, giving the place an eerie glow.  
  
"How long does this thing go on?"  
  
"Until dawn."  
  
"There's no way that I'm staying up that late!"  
  
"Well, suit yourself, but everyone who came today automatically gets to sleep until noon tomorrow. When you want to go back, just find the wagon that brought us here. Remember where we got off?"  
  
"How could I not? We've been going up the same damn street all day." Clarisse's fatigue made her short-tempered, but it would take more than that to blister Marlyn and Rosemary's hides. They just smiled.  
  
"It's been going back and forth all day. Just wait until it comes."  
  
"What about you…wait. What's that noise?"  
  
Clarisse sat up straight and cocked her head to one side; a distant roar, like waves crashing in the ocean, was filling the air. It was getting louder.  
  
"Stand up, Dahlia, unless you want to get trampled."  
  
"What?" She stood anyways. Her answer came a few moments later, as the noise became ear-splittingly familiar.  
  
The crowd was back, and in force. Multitudes of festival-goers squeezed between the walls of the houses and shops lining the streets, shouting and laughing and singing with a drunken fervor. Almost everyone in the horde was wearing a mask; some were carrying torches, which gave the surrounding area a fiery glow. The bright light bounced off the glittering masks and closed windows. The night, which had previously been no more than eerie, became frightening in Clarisse's eyes.  
  
As the wave crashed into the three women on the side of the street, Clarisse was dragged away from her friends. She tried to find them again as she was pushed along, but it was useless: they had been carried far away from her in the throng. It was extremely disorienting, trying to thread her way through the mass of swarming people. Her ears were filled with the noise of the people's voices, her eyes were dazzled by the flickering light, and no matter which way she went, she was trapped in the mass.  
  
"These people are crazy," Clarisse whispered furiously, hands clenched in her skirts to keep the gown from being trampled on. She was relieved she had left her fabric with Carla, as Marlyn had left her mandolin. A long line of people in costume—actors, she supposed, from the plays in the park—raced past her, laughing and waving half-filled tankards of ale. Clarisse winced as some splashed on the edges of her skirt, and moved back to avoid being flattened by the runners. It did no good; the crowd shifted and pushed her back into her former spot.  
  
"'Scuse me, lady," called a voice, pushing past her. The line of running people didn't seem to have an end; after the costumed actors left off, normally dressed people followed them. She nearly yelped when she felt a hand on her backside, and slapped it away as hard as she could.  
  
These people aren't crazy, she though fiercely, they're stone drunk. I need to get out of here.  
  
The princess looked up and around, trying to gauge where she was; she sighted the side street where the wagon would stop a little ways in front her. She tried to force her way out of the center of the mob, determined to reach the side street before she was swept passed it. The people she pushed out of the way all reacted differently to her; some yelled and sang raucously, as if they hadn't noticed her; some cursed her with unsteady voices and went around her; some tried to pinch her, and she slapped them away without looking up. One person, as she dodged between a group of friends, threaded an arm around her waist and kissed her full on the mouth. Clarisse tore herself away from the laughing man and ran until she was free of the people; she stood still in the cool, empty air of the night, panting.  
  
The mass stayed on the main road, thankfully, so she was alone on the side street. She caught her breath and took off her mask, bending the flexible feathers around it and placing it in her pocket. It was bulky but fit.  
  
The wagon came creaking along a few minutes later. Clarisse boarded it and sighed as it carried her back to the castle. Home.  
  
Thank god I got out of that, she thought. I wander where Rosemary and Marlyn are.  
  
When she got back to the castle, she went straight to her room and went to bed. She fell asleep before her head hit the pillow.  
  
  
  
Authors Note: That was a loooong chapter, and it wasn't even the end! I strayed from the plot a little with the midsummer festival, but it did have some purpose. I hope no one minds…? Well, before this turns into an author's ramble rather than note, the next chapter with definitely, certainly, without fail, be the last chapter. And it will be out very soon, I promise. Like, within a week. One and a half at most…gee, I better get started on it. ^__^;; 


	4. Part Four--Princess Furball

The rest of the summer passed by like a…well, Clarisse could never come up with a good comparison. All she knew was that summer was over before she knew it. Between learning to be a gourmet chef, talking with the Twins, and ordinary things like sleeping and eating, she had very little time to just sit and enjoy the sunshine. As the warmth started to fade and autumn began to creep into Marit, the princess suddenly realized that summer was gone. Soon the sun would be buried behind a mound of stormy rain clouds, and then the dull gray snow clouds would take their place. The thought depressed her; it often seemed as though she received her energy from photosynthesis. As the days shortened, all she wanted to do was curl up and sleep until spring began to melt the winter snows.  
  
The realization that the king would leave soon for the winter palace/hunting lodge made her feel even worse. She didn't want to leave Marlyn and Rosemary behind and go to the ugly stone castle again. When she brought up this worry, Rosemary chuckled. It wasn't an entirely happy chuckle.  
  
"I'm afraid you won't be seeing us whether you go or not; Lady Marionetta's wedding is in three weeks. Marlyn and I will be going with her and her husband on their honeymoon. We'll probably be gone past midwinter. They want to spend all the cold months in the south."  
  
"What? You're kidding."  
  
"No. We found out a few days ago. Marlyn's a bit angry, I'm afraid."  
  
Clarisse was a bit upset herself, albeit for different reasons then Marlyn.  
  
"What'll I do without you two? The room will be so empty. I'll have to go sit with Kate or Anna or someone at lunch."  
  
"We won't be so happy either, with you left behind. There'll be no one to lord our wealth of knowledge over." Rosemary grinned and patted the top of Clarisse's head as she rose. Clarisse smiled reluctantly and that was that.  
  
A few weeks later, just as the leaves began to turn gold and fall off (a bit earlier than usual; the weather was unexpectedly cold for the time of year) Lady Marionetta was married with great pomp and circumstance, and the Twins left for the south. Clarisse waved good-bye to them mournfully as the caravan of wagons left. She was lonely immediately.  
  
I might as well go back to the winter palace, she thought morosely. It would fit my mood pretty well.  
  
She knew she would probably have to go when everyone left, no choice about it; the Head Cook always traveled with the king, and it was Constantin himself who gave her cooking lessons most of the time.  
  
"I should, doubtlessly, be doing paperwork for more shipments," he would say pleasantly when she protested. "But this not only gets me out of that, it's constructive. If the king's steward should come to scold me about deadlines, then I can say I'm training a new chef."  
  
"That doesn't sound very impressive," Clarisse had replied.  
  
"It does sound better than saying I fell asleep at my desk, though. I'm a cook, not a paper-pusher. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll wake up and not know the difference between basting and broiling. It's good to practice every once in awhile, for the few occasions when the king orders me to cook for him."  
  
Often he would say this while doing some trick Clarisse despaired of ever learning. She was usually able to resist the urge to snort at the thought of him forgetting how to cook. But sometimes it was hard.  
  
As the leaves started to fall in greater and greater amounts, Clarisse's reluctance to leave her warm room in the castle grew. But it turned out her worry—which had begun to turn to dread—was in vain, because it became increasingly evident that the coming winter would be bitterly cold. The king decided to stay in the city that year and, privately, the servants rejoiced. Clarisse's spirits lifted slightly. The cold was too heavy an influence on her mood, however, to let them rise more than a little.  
  
That winter really was bitterly cold; it was able to pierce to the heart of the kitchens, though the many fires and ovens were usually armor enough to keep out the greatest chill. Clarisse, sitting in her empty room one day, decided that enough was enough. Her teeth were chattering and her hands were stiff, even as she built up and lit a fire. She threw the wardrobe doors open wide and looked down at the mound of fur laying at the bottom. She bent down to wrap her hands in it, sighing as they grew warm. Her fur coat looked a lot different then it had the night she received it. It had gotten torn and wet during her flight through the woods. Since then, moths had been chewing at it slightly. It was still warm and clean, but it was no longer the beautiful thing it had once been. Indeed, it looked like a cast-off that a noble might give to a maid.  
  
"Which is very lucky for me," muttered Clarisse as she removed her three gowns from it and stuffed them behind another pile in the back of the wardrobe. "Because I'm not going to take this off until spring. I wouldn't care if it had 'Princess Clarisse' embroidered on its back. It's warm."  
  
Her fur coat caused quite a stir anyways, the first day she walked into the kitchens with it. Several of her second-level acquaintances laughed when they saw her. Alan, who had finished his apprenticeship and was feeling bold, remarked that he always knew Dahlia was part bear; now he was certain, seeing the winter coat she had grown. Clarisse answered him with a growl and a ferocious glare that sent him stumbling away. But it was true; she did slightly resemble a wild animal. The coat made her slender frame look bulkier and it was hard to tell where her black hair began and the coat left off.  
  
The Head Cook was surprised by her new appearance as well. When she walked up to ask a question, he froze and stared at her. Then he chuckled and shook his head.  
  
"I was startled to see a walking furball in front of me for a moment, before I realized it was you. Be careful not to drag that coat in the food."  
  
"Oh," said the princess. "I didn't think of that." She looked down at her baggy coat. "It is alright to wear this in here, isn't it? This place is freezing."  
  
"Just as long as you're careful," he replied. "It wouldn't do to get hair in the plum pudding, would it?"  
  
Clarisse did keep it on, despite its unwieldiness. Unfortunately, Constantin's first impression of her stuck. The kitchen staff began to—affectionately—refer to her as Furball. Or, when she was being particularly snotty about it (as the servants said when Clarisse protested her nickname), Princess Furball. She grew used to it eventually, though she never grew to like it.  
  
The months dragged by slowly in the absence of Marlyn and Rosemary; the prospect of seeing the two friends at meals and in the evening had always made the endless work seem easier. Often, that winter, the princess didn't go to lunch at all. Instead, she stayed in the kitchen with the first-level assistants. They were conceited, as Constantin had warned, but they were mostly friendly and almost always happy to teach. They would talk to her, like a flock of agreeable (if crusty) aunts and uncles, and make as many meat pasties as they could eat. It wasn't the same as eating with the Twins, but it was fun in a different way. Clarisse learned much that winter.  
  
The only two events that the princess really remembered of that seemingly endless stretch of time happened at the beginning and the end. Clarisse's eighteenth birthday arrived a few weeks after the Twins left. She didn't tell anyone; having much fuss made over her always embarrassed the princess. Instead, she kept the knowledge to herself and remembered her last birthday. It had been about a month before she had run away.  
  
I seem to remember a party, she thought vaguely. I can't picture much of it. I must have been too worried to pay much attention.  
  
The day wasn't a very happy one, but it wasn't more than normally boring either. It was…a day.  
  
The second event was much more exciting—not to mention much more widely known. It was the king's midwinter ball, one of the most anticipated events of the year. Midsummer was the commoners' holiday; midwinter belonged to the nobility. The celebration lasted three days, with a ball each night. Everyone was preparing for it long in advance; the kitchens couldn't start baking until a few days prior, but Clarisse knew the first- level assistants and Constantin were hard at work planning awhile before that. She had even been invited to listen (and perhaps contribute, every now and then) as an apprentice. It was rather boring.  
  
Then, one week before the ball, something happened that upset many of the Head Cook's carefully made plans. A runner had arrived from the king, bearing a message; apparently he wanted something different for the dinner that year. Constantin had read it and scowled.  
  
"Well, that disturbs everything."  
  
"What is it?" asked a first-leveler named Maeve, the only woman in the group besides Clarisse.  
  
"There's an old fashion from Kyrir that His Majesty wants to use at the ball this year, to make it interesting, he says."  
  
"Kyrir? Why Kyrir?" It was a city-state by the sea, quite a distance from Marit.  
  
"I suspect it has something to do with the pretty Kyriran duchess he's been making eyes at for the past three months. Anyways, he wants…where's the description? Ah."  
  
"He wants 'a giant vat of soup, or perhaps several, enough to serve every guest. It is to be made in, or in a room connecting to, the ball room so that each guest should be able to drop in a token, a trinket of some type. Midway through the ball, when the food is served, each guest is to receive a bowl with a token in it. The lord or lady must then dance with whoever's token they've found. I hope you will not fail me in this, Constantin. I leave the preparation to you'. Isn't that sweet? I'm to make soup for the ball. I wonder if we'll be having any lords dancing with lords? Or even better, people dancing with themselves. I do not see how this could work." His voice held a touch of scorn in it. Clarisse could see he was greatly annoyed; the busyness of the past few weeks had worn his nerves to shreds.  
  
Rather like the first time I met him, she though wryly. When the foresters brought me to ask for a job. He looked rather as he does now; I wonder if he had been preparing for the midwinter ball?  
  
"It'll be alright, sir," said another cook, Vincent, cheerfully. "We'll figure it out."  
  
"I'm sure you will. But how am I to make gallons of soup by myself?"  
  
Suddenly all the assistants were looking at their hands, the table, or the floor—anything but into Constantin's eyes.  
  
"Well, I'll be busy overseeing the cakes. Decorating them too," said Maeve quickly. All the others made some sort of excuse as well. The Head Cook's eyes roamed over everyone's faces. Clarisse scooted back farther in her chair, which was sitting in the corner of Constantin's small office. The movement, unfortunately, caught his attention.  
  
"Ah hah! Dahlia, you can help me. You'll be a master at soups before this is over." He grinned; Clarisse saw a little sarcasm, a pinch of malice, and good portion of sympathy in his expression. He obviously realized the dismay she was feeling, being given a boring task like soup- making. Part of him stuck her with the job because of that. Misery loves company. Clarisse sighed.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
  
  
That was how, days later, she found herself sitting between two large cauldrons on a stool, looking and feeling incredibly sorry for herself. Usually, at an occasion such as this, she would be making last minute preparations for the ball or watching it from the musicians' gallery on the second level. Instead, she was stuck in a stuffy little room keeping an eye on soup. The boredom was nearly unbearable.  
  
"Oh, cheer up," said Constantin, sitting across the room at the other fireplace, two other cauldrons next to him. The ladies would put their tokens in the soup by Clarisse; the lords would put their tokens in the soup by the Head Cook. It was a silly practice. Neither Clarisse nor Constantin knew why the king had required it.  
  
"It's not really that bad. It's probably colder than this in the kitchens." The Head Cook was trying to think of reasons that they'd rather be there than anywhere else. Clarisse rolled her eyes, careful to keep her companion from seeing. As far as she was concerned, there were none.  
  
"I have my coat. I'm not at all cold here and I wouldn't be there." She pulled the baggy fur around her more tightly.  
  
"Oh, yes, I forgot. Princess Furball. I have to admit, I'm rather jealous; that thing looks warm."  
  
Clarisse immediately suppressed a rather inappropriate idea that popped into her mind. He's your boss, she reminded herself. You shouldn't think such things.  
  
She remained silent for a long time after that. The Head Cook sat without speaking, staring into the cauldrons next to him.  
  
"I wish I could see the ball room, even just a glimpse of it from the gallery. This is the biggest party all year. It must beautiful," Clarisse sighed, chin leaning on her hand. Constantin glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes.  
  
"I heard that the room's decorated wonderfully," she continued dreamily. "And it's a masquerade ball, so all the nobles will be a sight to see in their masks and costumes."  
  
This time Constantin sighed. "The preparation is done for the soup, it's just cooking now. I suppose you could go out and look about for a little while, until we have to serve the stuff."  
  
Clarisse perked up immediately. "What? Really? What about an hour?"  
  
"Half an hour."  
  
"Forty-five minutes?"  
  
"Done. Now off with you. I've had enough of your moping." He smiled briefly and waved his hand toward the door. Clarisse jumped up and started to leave.  
  
"Thank you!" She removed her apron and was gone. Clarisse raced down the passage that ran along side the ballroom, one of the servants' passages. She was headed toward the musician's gallery—Henri was used to her and let her up without Marlyn in attendance—but stopped when she saw light shining through a chink in the worn stone walls. Curious, she put her eye against the small hole. The sight she saw made her breath catch in her throat.  
  
The room was practically glowing, golden walls hung with boughs of evergreen. The mural on the ceiling looked like real sky, suspended high above a land made of emerald and amber. Strains of music, just barely within hearing range, floated through the hole and into the princess's ears. And the people—oh, the people!—Clarisse remembered dressing like that, at another ball in the distant past. Nostalgia, bittersweet, enveloped her in its grasp.  
  
They wore jeweled masks, masks covered in thinly hammered metal, masks mimicking birds and dragons and unicorns. The clothing matched the mask as well, in color and material if not in whimsicality. The princess saw a blue-green swan sweep past her, dressed in a gown of azure silk trimmed with sapphires. A man with a red gargoyle mask and a scarlet coat passed by after her, followed by a pair wearing matching green cat masks and jade velvet.  
  
Watching them hungrily, Clarisse recognized the dance as well. It was a Verbonyan folk dance-turned-court dance that she had loved. Her heart ached.  
  
I wish I could be there, she thought wistfully.  
  
And an idea began to form in her head—why couldn't she? She had her gowns hidden in her wardrobe and her mask from midsummer. All she would have to do was change and get into the ballroom unseen.  
  
Yes.  
  
Clarisse found herself running toward her room, shrugging off her coat and unlacing her gown the moment she shut the door behind her. She threw open the wardrobe doors and found the package that contained the dresses; reaching in, she pulled out the first one she touched. It was her brocade gown as golden as the sun, as golden as the room the nobility danced in. She slipped the shining thing over her head, hiding the drab petticoats and stays she wore underneath. It felt as heavy as chain mail, after a year without ball gowns. But it was a familiar, reassuring feeling. Clarisse smoothed the wide, unwrinkled skirts happily.  
  
Next she regarded her hair in a tiny mirror Rosemary had hung on the wall. It was up in a smooth black bun. Not bad looking, but very simple. Clarisse unpinned it and let it fall free around her shoulders; then she braided her bangs, coiled the remainder of her hair back on top of her head, and tucked the tips of the thin braids underneath the coil. The two ebony ropes draped over the sides of her face and under her ears elegantly. The princess smiled at her reflection and donned her silver-and-gold bird mask.  
  
Finally, she looked down at her feet in their scuffed leather boots. Saying they didn't match her gown was an understatement, and there was no way that she could dance in them. So, with a sigh, she sat on the edge of her bed and pulled them off, followed by her woolen stockings. The cold floor was like ice under her bare feet, but she had no slippers to wear.  
  
She was ready.  
  
Clarisse was sure to take the most rarely used passages up to the ballroom, afraid that one of the other servants would see her on the way. Luckily, she remained undiscovered. She finally arrived at the end of one particular passage. The princess pushed aside the tapestry covered it and stepped out, holding her breath.  
  
She emerged between an enormous drape and one of the tall glass windows of the ballroom; she could feel the coldness outside seeping through the glass. The chill steadied her nerves and her wits; she assumed a regal posture and swept out from behind the curtains into the room. She stood as though she belonged there.  
  
No one noticed her immediately, the young woman that stood along the wall. And though she didn't know it, the first people to sight her wondered how they could have missed her before, and why she was standing alone without a partner.  
  
One of the people who discovered her first was His Highness, Prince Marius, younger brother of the king himself. Marius had been dancing with a young countess, bored with her constant chatter and staring straight ahead with glazed eyes. That was when he saw a patch of darkness against the shining walls; he focused on a black-haired woman standing away from the dancers. His long-lashed dark-chocolate eyes widened with interest as he gazed at her: even from that distance, he could tell she was beautiful. Her smooth skin was pale brown, an unusual color in the city-states surrounding Marit; her hair, the dark patch he had first noticed, was black as night, and her gown was of the richest silk brocade money could buy. And her figure…he licked his lips, smiling.  
  
"Your Highness?" the countess's irritated voice brought his thoughts back to his immediate surroundings. He finished the dance with his attention on his partner, but after the music came to a close he strode off, intent on the black-haired woman. He slowed as he neared her, assuming a casual pace.  
  
Clarisse had been gazing toward the center of the room when a smooth voice broke into her reverie; she looked up and saw a young man standing in front of her. She recognized him instantly, though she had only ever seen him from a distance.  
  
Prince Marius was one of those very rare men who are truly beautiful; not handsome, not good-looking, but heart-stopping. Clarisse couldn't help but stare. His coloring was very similar to Marlyn's, with olive skin, brown eyes, and dark brown hair, but the colors on him were deeper and richer. The white linen of his shirt was very white against his skin, and even whiter next to his velvety black waistcoat and overcoat. His mask was black velvet as well, formed to resemble a stag; diamonds glittered around the eyeholes like stars. Looking closer at his eyes, Clarisse was half- shocked to see that they were outlined with kohl. She dropped a quick curtsey when she realized she was staring; the prince grabbed her arm gently and raised her back up.  
  
"There is no need for that, milady," he said in a light mellow voice, letting her arm go. A quick smile flashed across his face. "You shall give me away, if there is anyone here that has not discovered my disguise yet." He leaned closer, as if to whisper a secret. "I hoped to hide from a few of them a little longer." He nodded toward a group of women standing a few yards away.  
  
Clarisse was at a loss for what to say; the old Clarisse would have been haughty. The new Clarisse didn't want to be like that anymore, but she had never had a chance to relearn her court manners. Fortunately, the prince went on without a reply from her.  
  
"But I came over here to find out who you were, and why such a beautiful lady was standing alone. Do you not wish to dance?"  
  
"I would love to dance," she said without thinking. "But no one has asked me."  
  
He offered her his hand, palm up. The princess took it, blushing behind her mask. He put his other hand on her waist and swept her off into the midst of the dancing couples.  
  
"I cannot believe that no one has asked; are they blind, that they do not notice you? But perhaps they know something I don't, and I'm putting myself in danger. Do you have a particularly jealous husband, lady?" His voice took on a teasing tone; Clarisse, half charmed and half bemused by the young prince, laughed hesitantly.  
  
"I have no husband, so you may be sure of your safety in that area."  
  
"Then perhaps you are a witch, that will turn me into a toad if I step on your feet?"  
  
"Nor do I know anything of magic."  
  
"Well, it can't be that you dance badly, because I don't think I've ever met someone so light on their feet. I give up; what is your name? Maybe that will give me a clue." His head was tilted down, and he looked up at her through lowered eyelashes.  
  
Does he know how compelling that look is? she thought in the back of her head. I'll bet he does.  
  
"Oh, what would be the fun of that? This is a masquerade ball. Anyway, it is so much more convenient for no one to know who you are. It gives you more freedom, no?" Despite how hard Clarisse tried, a hint of her old manner crept into her voice. It was instinctive; she was in a ballroom and the snobby Princess took over. She didn't realize it, but her voice took on much the same tone as the prince's: a thread of aloofness in an otherwise friendly tone. The prince recognized this and smiled to himself.  
  
"Well said, lady. I suppose I must leave the question alone for now, but I will try to find you out nonetheless. I know you are not a normal resident of this court, though, so that could narrow my search."  
  
The dance ended soon after; Marius led Clarisse back to the fringes of the crowd. There, they were intercepted by two more masked courtiers. One of them the princess recognized very well, and she froze.  
  
"Brother, you have not met Lady Naia yet, have you? You must dance with her next." It was the king himself. Clarisse felt like her heart was about to stop.  
  
I was just going to come in and watch, maybe dance with a baron or two, she thought. But here I am, with the most goddamn beautiful prince I've ever seen on my arm, and the king standing in front of me. I really am good at getting in deeper than I mean to.  
  
"Of course, sir," murmured the prince deferentially, though Clarisse could see a glint of annoyance in his eye. Marius bowed to Clarisse and kissed her hand.  
  
"Thank you for a wonderful time, milady. I will see you later." His voice was light, but she heard the steel in 'will'. She thanked him and he went over to the lady Naia. The king went back the way he came, and the princess made her way back over to the place where she had entered the ballroom. She crept under the tapestry when she was sure no one was looking.  
  
When she was safely back in her room, she dropped into a crouch on the floor and breathed deeply for a minute or two. Then she stood and smoothed nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt.  
  
"Oi, Clarisse," she said aloud to the empty room. "You are in for it. No good can come of this." But she was flattered by the prince's attentions anyway. She was reluctant to strip off her ball gown and change back into her working clothes and coat, but she did it nonetheless. Her hair was smoothed back into a bun and her mask was put back in the wardrobe. Then she returned to the room where Constantin was waiting with the soup.  
  
  
  
He was looking mildly worried when she arrived; when he saw her, his face relaxed.  
  
"There you are. I was afraid you wouldn't make it in time to present the soup to the king. But here you are, with five minutes to spare."  
  
"You want me to go in there with you?" She was surprised and more than a little alarmed. Constantin failed to notice.  
  
"Of course. I plan to make my other assistants regret that they did not offer to help me. But more than that, you deserve some credit. You did half the work."  
  
Clarisse disagreed, but didn't say so. She only hoped that Marius, if he saw her, would not recognize her in servants' clothing, without a mask. If he did… Clarisse did not want to think what would happen. Would she be punished? Would they discover her true identity?  
  
She leaned over to inspect her two pots of soup; it was warm and fragrant, nicely cooked. She leaned farther over to get a better whiff of the delicious smell; then she felt something shift in her coat and looked down in horror as a tiny porcelain cat figurine fell into the soup with a musical 'plish'.  
  
Oh, dear God! Her mind shrieked. I forgot—my mother's things that I brought with me. Have they been in my coat the entire time? Now it's in the soup, and I can't get it out! Oh, what can I do?  
  
"Is the soup alright?" asked Constantin, coming over to peer into it. Clarisse nodded quickly, hiding the panicked look on her face.  
  
"Yes, yes, it's fine. Smells very good."  
  
"Good. It's about time to serve it now. But be careful; the king will have a fit if he finds hair in the soup." The Head Cook grinned at the princess before walking over to one of the many doors in room and saying something to someone outside of it. Clarisse rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. People made jokes about her coat whenever they could.  
  
She pushed her fears about discovery—and the cat figurine—to the back of her mind when more servants entered the room and carried the cauldrons out to the ballroom; one side of it was raised slightly, and this side held a table covered in food and surrounded by courtiers. Clarisse looked through the door surreptitiously, just sticking her head out.  
  
"Come on, Dahlia, don't be shy. You'll be fine. Just stand next to me while the soup is served; you don't have to say or do anything."  
  
She followed the Head Cook out the door and into the glittering ballroom, feeling horribly exposed. She pulled her coat more tightly around her and bent her face toward the ground. She stopped when she saw Constantin's feet stop and turned to face the direction he faced. She looked up slowly when she saw more feet; those of the servers, taking a bowl full of soup and a trinket to each of the guests.  
  
They were standing directly in front of the table where the royal party sat, though a few yards back, with the cauldrons in between them and the table. She watched, her curiosity becoming stronger than her fear for a moment. The king dipped a long, delicate spoon into his bowl, removing a small metallic object from it. Clarisse studied it—the object was too far away for her to make out clearly, but it appeared to be a tiny shield with a coat-of-arms blazoned across it in jewels. The king chuckled and showed it to a young woman sitting next to him.  
  
"Well, my lady—it appears my next dance shall be promised to you." The lady blushed and murmured something that Clarisse could not hear.  
  
"Princess Vanya, from Kyrir," breathed the Head Cook, so quietly the princess could barely hear him.  
  
"That's the lady from Kyrir this nonsense is all for. You'd best look well. She'll probably be our queen before the next year is out."  
  
She did look and came to the same conclusion; when she drew the king's token from her own bowl a few moments later, Vanya and Josef exchanged a glance that left little to be imagined. It was the same glance Marlyn and Henri had exchanged when he had handed her the mandolin he had won at the festival.  
  
By then, most of the other nobles had received their own soup, and were fishing gold and silver trinkets out of it hesitantly. Clarisse hid her smile as she saw looks of dismay, pleasure, and resignation as people discovered whom they were being forced to dance with. Many of the older courtiers looked mildly disgusted at having to pick things from their food, but held their peace. The princess turned her eyes toward Marius; he was inspecting—Clarisse's eyes widened—two glittering objects in his hand. One was all too familiar to her.  
  
"Lucky you, Marius," the king was saying, his eyebrows raised. "You have been given an extra."  
  
"Indeed," murmured the prince. One of the tokens was, like most of the others, a small shield with a coat-of-arms upon it. But the other was a small cat figurine with golden gilt spots. He examined the cat more closely and Clarisse stared at it and him until King Josef addressed Constantin, startling her into self-awareness.  
  
"I applaud you on a job well done, Constantin. I feel certain tomorrow night's feast shall be as well prepared," he announced, smiling at the Head Cook benevolently. The Head Cook bowed low.  
  
"I am honored, your Majesty," he said clearly.  
  
The king can't be any older than he is, thought the princess, disgruntled. Probably younger. How can he bear to be condescended to like that?  
  
"I must admit, though, I could not have done it without the help of my new assistant, Dahlia." Constantin was standing upright again and smiling delicately. This was his revenge upon the first-level assistants, who were so unwilling to help him. Clarisse realized that she should be honored to be commended before the king, but she could only feel slightly sick. She curtseyed deeply anyways. The king nodded to her pleasantly.  
  
"Assistant, eh? Well, I know I speak for all the court when I say we're happy to have another wonderful chef among us."  
  
And that was that. His attention turned to something else and the two cooks were left standing there.  
  
"Well, time to go. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Constantin patted her on the back and turned to go. Clarisse started to leave as well, looking back at the royal party one last time before she left.  
  
The prince's eyes were on her, though she could see no sign of recognition in them. He smiled at her, long delicate fingers toying with the figurine in his hands. Clarisse flushed and followed her fellow cook out of the room. She could feel Marius's gaze on her back all the way.  
  
  
  
The next night, Clarisse returned to the small room to prepare more soup for the king; the midwinter celebrations lasted three days and the king demanded the same diversion each evening. She had much to mull over that night, though, so the time did not drag by so slowly.  
  
When she had first arrived in the little room and greeted Constantin, she was determined she would not go dance again that night. By the time the water had been poured in the large cauldrons to boil, she had changed her mind and decided that the danger of discovery was not that great. As she chopped vegetables, she had lost her nerve. When the time came to add the vegetables to the boiling water, she had convinced herself to go after all. By the time the mixture started to simmer, she had absolutely no idea what she wanted to do. She wanted to see the beautiful prince again, but she was half-afraid of it too.  
  
The Head Cook didn't fail to notice her distraction. He watched her narrowly the entire time. As Clarisse decided she would never decide what to do, he spoke and broke the heavy silence in the room.  
  
"Yes, you have permission to go watch the dancing. Please, go. You're driving me crazy with all your pacing."  
  
Clarisse stopped circling the area by her cauldrons and blinked. She hadn't realized she had been walking. She glanced at him guiltily.  
  
"Really, it's fine. Just be back in three-quarters of an hour, like last time."  
  
She nodded and left, running down the passageways to her cold room once again. She retrieved her mask from the wardrobe and reached into the hidden bag that contained her dresses. The one she pulled out this time was silver satin, sewn with moonstones and shining ribbon. She put on the gown, took off her boots, and looked in the mirror.  
  
"How can I keep him from recognizing me as Dahlia?" she asked her reflection. She pulled her hair down from its bun and let it hang loose over her shoulders and back.  
  
"Not good enough," she complained. Then she had an idea. Being careful not to tear or wrinkle the fine satin, she returned to the wardrobe and bent down. At the very floor of it was the old hatbox in which Rosemary and Marlyn kept the cast-off cosmetics they had gotten shortly after Clarisse had arrived. There was still a bit left; she took the kohl and lipcream and rouge and painted her face with them; not too much, just enough that the change was noticeable. Looking in the mirror this time, she decided she looked different enough to pass a rudimentary examination.  
  
So she took her coat, wrapped it around her to hide her dress, and tucked her mask underneath it. She checked the hallway for people before sneaking off into the least-used passages again. When she arrived behind the tapestry by the window, she shed her coat and put on her mask.  
  
No one will know me, she reassured herself. The sound of the music by itself was enough to overcome her fears. She stepped into the ballroom and waited by the wall for a partner.  
  
Maybe it was pure chance, or maybe he had been searching for her, but the prince spotted Clarisse soon after her arrival. This time he was without a partner, so he sauntered through the crowd over to her leisurely. His appearance surprised her as much as it had the night before.  
  
"A good evening to you, Madame Unknown. Once again I find you standing alone."  
  
She turned to the soft voice and barely restrained herself from curtseying. He smiled through his stag mask, this time midnight blue to match his clothing.  
  
"And to you, your Highness. I see you have been able to hide from the admiring masses as well tonight." Princess Clarisse answered before Dahlia/Clarisse had time to formulate a reply. She was glad for the automatic reply, but the words seemed to come from a person who had faded away a long time ago. It disturbed Clarisse to know that the supercilious princess still lived inside of her.  
  
"I have hoped to see you, lady, so I made an effort to go unnoticed."  
  
This time she did blush, and the princess remained quiet. A quiet laugh emerged from her throat after a moment of embarrassed silence.  
  
"I'm afraid that flattery will not convince me to tell you my name. You still have to find that out on your own."  
  
Marius regarded her with hooded eyes and an indolent smile. "Ah, well, I thought I might as well try. Though, lady, you do yourself a disservice to think of it as mere flattery. I truly have been waiting to dance with you. Surely you would not refuse?"  
  
She couldn't, though the prince still half frightened her. She knew he was fully capable of wrapping her around his finger if he wanted to. Perhaps he already was, because she danced with him despite her misgivings. She had come to ball to dance with him.  
  
"So, I must figure out your name," he was saying. "Let's see—what clues do I have to this puzzle? I know you are not a Maritian courtier, or at least not one regularly in attendance. So that leaves two possibilities. A woman new to court or a foreigner." He paused as they did a particularly complicated dance step.  
  
"I will give you another clue, then; I know the palace rather well." She didn't know what possessed her to say it, but she figured that the hint would steer him away from Verbonya and the truth. To be discovered as a servant might be marginally better than being sent back to her father—and her bridegroom.  
  
"So who had recently been presented to the king? I'm afraid I do my best to avoid such functions, so I know few of the faces that go with the names."  
  
"Well, you can't expect me to help you there. I suppose you'll have to look into it some other time."  
  
"Yes," he murmured, regarding her with his amazing dark eyes. Clarisse looked down at the floor to avoid meeting that gaze. Suddenly, he was pushing her chin back up. She moved back and he put his arm back around her waist.  
  
"There is no need to be shy, lady," he said in a mild tone.  
  
If shyness doesn't protect me, she thought, I don't know what will.  
  
The dance ended soon after. They returned to the sides. Clarisse looked up toward the elaborate clock, a true work of art, which was displayed on the mirrored walls. It was about time that she left.  
  
"Mmm," she said, swallowing. "That left me rather thirsty. I don't suppose I could find myself something to drink anywhere here?" She glanced toward the table on the far side of the room; it wasn't prepared for the feast yet, but it was laden with tiny cakes, fruit, and punch."  
  
"If you will allow me, I shall go retrieve us both something to drink," proposed Marius.  
  
"If it's not too much trouble…?"  
  
"Certainly not. I will return shortly." In truth, Marius knew a dismissal when he heard one. He was more skilled at this sort of thing than Clarisse, but he was content to let her go for the moment.  
  
I have inquiries to make, he thought, smiling inwardly. But don't fear, my lady; I will discover you eventually. One way or another. I know a few methods to get the answer out of you.  
  
  
  
Once he was out of sight, the princess slowly drifted toward the window again. When she was sure no one was looking at her, she moved behind the curtain and through the tapestry. She removed her mask, donned her coat, and returned to her room. She knew she had stayed a few minutes later than she had last time, so she practically tore the gown off of her, laced up her servant's dress, and pinned up her hair. She pulled her stockings on in a rush and tied on her boots clumsily; then she picked up her coat. Before she walked out the door, she remembered the make-up on her face; she wiped it off hurriedly and dashed to the anteroom where the soup and Constantin waited. Once again, his expression relaxed when he saw her.  
  
"I thought you wouldn't make it; they're just about to take the soup out," he said, standing over the two cauldrons he had tended. "Does the stuff over there seem alright to you? I'm afraid this got a bit too hot."  
  
She went over to check the other two cauldrons, glad for the chance to catch her breath. It seemed just the right temperature to her; she leaned over to test it with the tip of her finger…  
  
Plop! She watched as something small disappeared into the soup. Cursing herself, she dug her hand into the coat pocket; the only thing in it was the small clockwork frog.  
  
The ring, she thought. My ring fell in. Oh, dear god, why didn't I empty my pocket last night?  
  
The door opened and the servers entered to carry the cauldrons to the nobles. Clarisse straightened hastily, her heart sore to lose another memento of her mother. But there was no way to get it back.  
  
"The soup's alright," she called to the Head Cook before it was carried away. He nodded absently and took off the apron he was wearing. She followed him out, face tilted toward the floor like before.  
  
It went pretty much like it had the other night; Clarisse paid no attention to the king, except to wonder sardonically if the game was rigged. Once again, he was given Princess Vanya's token.  
  
The majority of her attention was focused on Marius, sitting at the king's left hand. She watched him through her eyelashes, since her face was to the ground. Once again—just my luck, she thought—he was given the thing she had dropped into the soup by mistake. A little silver ring set with a fire-opal carved into a rose. And once again, the king commented on his luck for having been given two. She stared at that little ring on the palm of his hand, mind empty. She replied to the king's compliments woodenly and it took a touch on her shoulder to get her to follow Constantin out of the room. All she was conscious of was the cat, the ring, and Marius.  
  
She didn't see, after she turned to go, Marius elbowing the young man next to him in the side and nodding toward her back. The young man, a cousin of his, chuckled and said something rude. Marius narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.  
  
She moves very gracefully for a servant, he reflected. I think it might be pleasant to get to know the wench a little better.  
  
  
  
"Are you feeling alright?" asked Constantin curiously. They were walking down the passages to the kitchen, arms full of tiny bags of spices. They would be returned to a cabinet in his office and locked in; such things were as precious as gold and not to be left in just anyone's hands.  
  
"I'm fine. Why?"  
  
"You just seem a little edgy today. You don't have to help again tomorrow night if you're feeling sick. I'm sure Maeve or Vincent would be happy to help out now."  
  
Clarisse smiled, remembering the expressions on the first-levelers' faces when they heard how Constantin and she had presented the food to the king.  
  
"No, really, I'm fine. Just sleepy, I suppose. And I've spent too much time with them to give up an opportunity like this. I'll be a proper first-level assistant before long."  
  
"That's too bad. I was just getting used to having someone around that didn't mind grunt work. Ah, well."  
  
They arrived at his office soon after and locked up the spices safely. Then she returned to her room and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.  
  
  
  
The next morning came all too early, but most of Clarisse's stress had disappeared with her night's sleep. Unfortunately, she heard two things that day at lunch that she decided she could have gone without knowing. All the princess could do was grit her teeth and pretend it didn't bother her.  
  
The first item of disturbing news was pretty common talk in the mess hall that day. She had been sitting quietly at the end of a table eating, the same as she had whenever she ate in the mess hall since the Twins left. Everyone was talking about the midwinter celebration—how they were celebrating and how the nobles were. It was one particular phrase the caught her attention. Indeed, it sent a chill down her back.  
  
"…mystery lady at the ball," laughed a woman's voice from nearby. If the princess had been a dog or a horse, her ears would have perked up.  
  
"What was that, Lucy?" Clarisse asked the middle-aged woman who had spoken. Lucy was the washerwoman who had taught Clarisse how to clean her own clothes. Lucy had a rather affectionate attitude toward the princess.  
  
"Ah, I was talking about the lady who's appeared at the balls the past few nights—just shows up, in as pretty a dress as you could hope for, but no one knows who she is. Don't tell me you haven't heard about her." The woman looked thoughtful for a moment. "Haven't you been working up at the ball, lass? You didn't happen to catch sight of her, did you?"  
  
"Oh, ah, no," replied Clarisse quickly, fumbling for an answer. "I've been pretty busy. But I have heard a few people speaking of her today. Does anyone have an idea of who she is?"  
  
"Not a clue. They say young prince Marius has been working hard to find out, asking after every young lady visiting court." She chuckled. "He's been offending quite a few of the women his brother's been trying to foist off on him. I don't think the king's going to get him married until he's good and ready himself. That boy is a handful."  
  
The conversation drifted to other things and Clarisse fell silent again, pushing around vegetables in her bowl of stew and thinking. It was then that she heard the other, far more troubling, piece of gossip.  
  
Two girls slightly younger than the princess were sitting three seats down from her, whispering quietly to each other. Clarisse didn't know them by name but she recognized them as scullery maids from the kitchen. Usually she wouldn't have paid them any attention, but she heard the word 'Dahlia' from one of them. She stiffened and concentrated on their conversation.  
  
"Little miss Furball was busy? Huh, I bet. I can just imagine how that girl got to first-level assistant's assistant so fast. Did you know she was a spit-turner just a year ago?"  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes, I heard she was hired at the winter palace."  
  
"How did she get so high up? Gennie's been working in the kitchens for five years and she still hasn't gotten past third-level assistant."  
  
"Oh, come on, don't be so naïve. With a face like hers? Men will do anything to get a pretty girl's gratitude. I bet the Head Cook was happy to promote her, no matter how she cooks."  
  
"You aren't saying that…?"  
  
Clarisse didn't want to hear anymore. At first she was utterly enraged that they dared to imply she was that type of girl—and that Constantin would do anything so disgusting; if he was sometimes bad-tempered, he had never offered her an inappropriate word or action. But then the anger was replaced with a sinking feeling in her stomach and the knowledge that she knew absolutely nothing about such things.  
  
It can't be true, she thought wretchedly. He would never…some thing like that…. he wouldn't, would he? No. It's just ill-natured gossip from some spiteful girls.  
  
But the doubt was still there.  
  
She came to help with the soup that night rather reluctantly, though she hoped it didn't show. She tried to chat with Constantin just as casually as normal, but she found herself strangely unwilling to meet his eyes, as if he could see the maids' words imprinted on her irises. She wanted to believe the gossip wasn't true, but a little voice in the back of her mind whispered, What do you know? What if it is true? What if?  
  
She was ashamed of herself for that tiny doubt, because she had come to respect Constantin as a good man as well as a superb cook. When she asked to watch the dancers, after the soup was prepared, and he consented, she fled the room quickly and was relieved when she reached her chamber.  
  
"I'm relieved to sneak into the noble's ball and dance with an extraordinarily dangerous young man," she said wryly to her reflection as she braided her hair and arranged it on her head. "All this cooking has muddled my head. I need a holiday."  
  
After she was content with her hairdo, she slipped on her one remaining gown, the white silk one sewn with tiny diamonds and embroidered with silver thread. It felt like a dream next to her bare skin; she sighed as she realized that this was the last night of midwinter parties. She might never get to wear her gowns again.  
  
Before picking up her mask and putting on her coat, she remembered to do one last thing—she reached into the coat pocket and removed the golden frog that remained in it.  
  
"There is no way I'm giving you a chance to jump into the soup. It would probably ruin you," she said to the frog sternly.  
  
I'm talking to a toy, she thought wonderingly. I must be going crazy.  
  
She placed it upon her bed, slipped on her coat, and hid the mask in its folds. Then she left once again—the last time—for the ball. She was rather used to the routine now. Sneak up to the ballroom, put on the mask, and leave the coat on the floor. It was easy, and she arrived earlier than usual. Still, the prince did not find her for sometime.  
  
"Milady, I'm sorry if I have kept you waiting for long. My brother has been pushing women at me all night, in hopes that I might take a fancy to one." This was his greeting tonight. Clarisse smiled sympathetically at him. She remembered the feeling well.  
  
"I have not been waiting too long; I am happy enough that you choose to dance with me at all."  
  
"See, that is where you differ from most of the ladies here tonight—you do not take me quite so much for granted." He moved to lean against the wall next to her, watching Clarisse steadily. A slow smile spread across his exquisitely shaped mouth. "It is no wonder I like you better than the rest. You are not nearly so demanding."  
  
Somehow I doubt anyone takes you for granted, a little voice in the back of Clarisse's mind said.  
  
"Have you decided I am not one of your courtiers, then?" she asked, hoping to change the subject.  
  
"Yes, indeed I have. I have made sure to see every single one of the young ladies new here, and you were not among them. So I suppose you must be visiting—perhaps from Kyrir, with my brother's dear Princess Vanya?"  
  
"I wouldn't say so if I was," was her reply. It neither confirmed nor denied his guess.  
  
"I suppose not. Tomorrow I shall have to go visiting the Kyriran delegation; perhaps I will see you there? It would be a pity if I were to never see you again after tonight."  
  
"Well, I know I will miss dancing with you." She didn't want to offend him, but she didn't particularly want to flirt either. He took the hint and they joined the people already dancing in the center of the room. For once, they danced in silence. Clarisse was happy for it; she could relax and just enjoy the music and the movement, without having to think up replies to compliments or questions. She was sorry when that dance ended. It must have shown on her face, because they paused, far away from the main crowd, and Marius raised one gloved hand to stroke her cheek under her mask.  
  
"You have such a sad look on your face, milady," he murmured. "You really are beautiful."  
  
She blinked; it seemed an odd thing to say. She ducked her head away from his hand and moved back a step; by the cold behind her, she could tell that they were approaching the huge windows along the outside of the room. He moved closer to her, forcing Clarisse to look at him again.  
  
"You don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not going to hurt you," he continued. She stared at him like a doe confronted by a hunter; hoping, perhaps, that if she stood still enough, the hunter wouldn't see her.  
  
It's like looking into the sun, she thought vaguely. It hurts, but it's beautiful too. There he is, standing there with his jade green silk and curly brown hair and eyelashes as long as mine. God, he's probably wearing more make-up than I am. And I can't look away.  
  
And then, with her frozen in place and unable to run, he leaned down to kiss her. She leaned into him—what else could she do, what could any woman do?—as he moved from her forehead to her eyes and finally to her lips. He circled her waist with both of his arms and she didn't move to stop him.  
  
"You are beautiful," he repeated, his mouth moving against hers. And then, in the midst of all that, a very strange thought entered her mind.  
  
…You'd do well to stay clear of him, though I don't know when you'd ever run into him. But, you never know, and I might as well warn you if you plan to work here for any length of time. You're not a plain woman, Dahlia; in fact, you're absolutely gorgeous. You should remember that, and be more careful whom you talk to because of it…  
  
It was Marlyn's voice, from that night so long ago, when Clarisse had first seen the prince. It was as if the dark-haired woman was standing right next to her: she remembered the tone in her voice and the look on her face perfectly.  
  
She's right, she thought in the back of her mind. He doesn't care for me, not really. I've been listening to gossip about what woman he's been keeping company with since I got here. He wants me, that's all. And he knows he can get me. He's too goddamn beautiful for his own good.  
  
And suddenly, violently, she was filled with fury.  
  
I am not going to give into him like everyone else. I am not going to fall into his arms just because he's beautiful.  
  
Clarisse pushed away from him as hard as she could, sending him off balance and breaking free of his arms. He caught himself before he fell and stood there, gasping, staring at her with the first real emotion she had seen since she had met him. Then his amused mask was back and he lunged for her, catching her arm in a tight, almost painful, grasp.  
  
"You are not getting away so easily, milady," he laughed, moving close to her. "Or should I say—Clarisse?"  
  
Now she was not only angry. She was genuinely frightened.  
  
This time, she ran. She ran into the curtains draping the windows behind them, ran through the tapestry and picked up her coat on the way, knowing full well that he was chasing behind her. But she had the head start. She ripped off her mask and dropped it on the ground, not caring where it landed. She threw the coat over her dress as they emerged from the side passage to a main one.  
  
"Come back here, lady!" he called, the steel in his voice covered by a thin coating of laughter. She ran faster, though her lungs burned as the air raced in and out of them. She turned suddenly, but he followed her still. She considered trying to lose him in a more circuitous path, but was afraid of what would happen if he caught her alone.  
  
She ran until she found the right passage, a short one that ended in a door. She pushed the door open as she ran; it was old and heavy, but moved easily on its hinges. The room she emerged in was very familiar, as was the face that stared as she burst in.  
  
"Dahlia?" asked Constantin worriedly, walking over to wear she had collapsed on the floor. "Dahlia!" This time his face was astounded. She just looked back at him, too exhausted to talk. Something about his face struck her as strange, as he stared at the ball gown spilling out from under her coat.  
  
Why, he can't be more than ten years older than I am, she thought wonderingly. Less than that, maybe. Maybe the shock on his face is what makes him look so young all the sudden. There's something about his face…but I have other things to worry about now.  
  
"Please!" she gasped, standing up and moving to the far side of the room. She pointed to the doorway, where she could hear footsteps. "Don't let him…!"  
  
Whatever questions the Head Cook might have had—or at least most of them—were answered when he saw Prince Marius walk through the door, his hair slightly windblown, but not breathing hard at all. Constantin's eyes narrowed as he regarded the prince.  
  
"What mischief have you been up to?"  
  
"No mischief," said the prince, smoothing his hair nonchalantly and sounding hurt. His dark eyes flicked to Clarisse, then back to look at Constantin.  
  
"Somehow I doubt that," replied the Head Cook. "I hope you haven't been bothering Dahlia, Marius."  
  
Clarisse was dazed. How could he be addressing the prince by his given name? Why on earth was he speaking so harshly? He was only a cook, and Marius was royalty!  
  
"Is that what she's been calling herself?" His voice was, as always, soft and husky and composed. "I do not…bother women, Constantin."  
  
"Well, she doesn't look to pleased, does she? I hope I won't have to speak to your brother again."  
  
"Of course not. I was merely exploring these ever-so-interesting passageways and ended up here."  
  
"Maybe you should return to the ball. The feast is about to start. I believe the king would notice if you weren't there. Then he might ask questions, and I'd be forced to tell him what you've been up to."  
  
"And we can't have that, can we? Never fear, my dear cook, I am off. If you still wish to argue, you know where to find me." It amazed Clarisse that his voice could be so composed when he was being accused of attempted rape. With a last unreadable look at Clarisse, sitting on the floor, he left through one of the many doors in the room.  
  
There was silence. The princess sat and tried to gather her wits. The Head Cook stood and rubbed his eyes with one hand.  
  
"You will have to explain this all to me later," he said without looking at her. "I have to admit, I'm very curious. But you seem to have just suffered a bit of an ordeal and I have to go serve soup to the king."  
  
He turned to look at her. Though his voice had been no more than tired, Clarisse had feared he was angry. His face, though, was free of reproach. She stood up shakily and kilted up her skirts so that they didn't show beneath the hem of her long oversized coat; then she wrapped it tightly around her and stood by the wall. A few minutes later, the servers came and took away all the soup. Constantin followed them and for a while, the princess was alone.  
  
I am so tired, she thought. I should be afraid; the prince knows who I am and will doubtless spread it about. Or maybe he'll blackmail me. And soon I will have to tell Constantin too. But I can't find the energy to be more than tired.  
  
When the Head Cook returned, she was ready to explain everything and hope for the best.  
  
"Come on, there's no need to stay in here. With any luck, I won't ever have to return to this stuffy little room again," he declared.  
  
"I don't know. If the king marries Princess Vanya, like everyone thinks, then we might end up doing this every year."  
  
"Not exactly like this, I hope." He looked at her seriously. "I do not have the strength in me to stand up to Marius every year. But come back to my office and tell me everything. Why was he chasing you, where did you get that dress, and why does he think your name is other than Dahlia?"  
  
So they walked down to his office, the small cluttered room next to the kitchens where she had been promoted. He sat down behind his desk and she pulled up one of the mismatched chairs that remained.  
  
"I don't even know where to begin," she said, pulling her knees to her chest and resting her chin on them. "But first, will you promise me—whatever I say, you won't tell anyone?"  
  
"I can't promise that. If you're planning to murder Miriam, or lead an invasion of Marit, than I'll be forced to say something." Clarisse didn't laugh, but she did take it as a 'yes' to her question. Nothing she had done since running away had hurt anyone but herself, or maybe her father (but she really didn't care what happened to him.)  
  
"Alright. It all started a little more than a year ago…" she began. Then she told him everything. Her father forcing her to marry, her decision to run away, how she had been found by the two foresters and brought back to him for a job.  
  
"And I just worked here quietly for a year. Until midwinter—that first night, I had every intention of just going up to the musicians' gallery and watching the nobles dance. But when I saw them, all these memories kept rushing back. I suppose I was lonely, too, without the Twins, so I ran down and got out one of the dresses my father had given me. With that and my mask from midsummer, I didn't think I'd ever be found out. I went to the ballroom and danced."  
  
"The next night, I didn't decide whether to return until the last moment. But I did go, once again. Looking back, I don't know why. And then, tonight, I went back again. That's when the trouble started. I danced with the prince, and when the dance ended we were in a corner by the windows. And he…he tried to—." She was too embarrassed to say it.  
  
I don't know why I should be embarrassed, she reflected. I didn't do anything out of line. It was the prince.  
  
"I understand," put in the Head Cook kindly. She went on.  
  
"So I ran. I ran into the servants' passageways, since there was an entrance close by. I thought I could lose him in there, but he followed me. Eventually I arrived at that little room, and you know what happened from then on."  
  
"Yes." He thought for a moment. "That's quite a story, but I'm inclined to believe you. I don't know why no one ever figured out you were the runaway princess before. You have a very noticeable Verbonyan accent and not many people in this area of the world have your coloring." He smiled. "But everything's easier in hindsight, I suppose."  
  
"Well, the prince knows who I am. He must have figured it out like you said." Her face grew solemn. "Do you think he'll tell anyone? He's probably mad at me."  
  
"No, I don't think he will. Who'd believe him? And he'd get in big trouble with the king if the word got out he was less than polite to a princess." Constantin chuckled softly at the thought. Then Clarisse narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.  
  
"And I have a question for you—who are you to talk so disrespectfully to your prince?"  
  
That wiped the laughter off his face.  
  
"Come on, I just revealed my life story to you. It would be mean of you not to tell me one little thing after that."  
  
He sighed and shifted in his chair. "Oh, fine. I suppose it's already common knowledge."  
  
"Our former king, who retired to his country estates a few years ago and left the kingdom to Josef, was almost as much as a ladies' man as Prince Marius. If a bit more polite about it. I happen to be his second oldest surviving bastard."  
  
"What?" Clarisse felt her mouth drop open.  
  
He's right, though, she noticed. He resembles Marius and Josef, ever so slightly, even though he's blond and blue-eyed like Rosemary. That's what I saw that surprised me, when he was berating the prince. I don't know what it is—maybe his nose or the way his eyes are set. Wow. I would never have guessed it.  
  
"Usually, this wouldn't give me any edge over my legitimate half- brothers, but the king did sort of half-acknowledge me. Not legally, but he gave my mother a nice pension and visited me every now and then and gave me a horse for my fifteenth birthday. And he told Josef and Marius that they were always to treat us with respect. No sneering or teasing allowed. And he told me to look after my younger brothers."  
  
"I worked in the kitchens of my own accord when I was young, so I saw Marius every now and then. He's about seven years younger than me. I would sneak him cakes or apples sometimes. Until he was old enough to realize that he was a prince and I was a kitchen boy, he was like a younger brother to me. After that, he drifted away. But I retain the right to lecture him every so often." The reminiscent look on his face turned grim. "This isn't the first time I've had to chase him away from my employees."  
  
"Mmm. I guess we're even now. I won't spread gossip about you because you know my story, and likewise." She yawned.  
  
"I wouldn't tell anyways, but I'm afraid you don't have much of a hold on me. I think most people below-stairs already know my story."  
  
"Huh. Lucky you," she started, remembering the scullery maids who had slandered her. "No one ever says you didn't earn your position fairly, even though you're the king's son."  
  
"Actually, they did, about five years ago when I first became Head Cook. I wasn't much older than you and no one thought I deserved it except the king's steward, who named me."  
  
The full import of her words struck him then and he looked at her speculatively.  
  
"What have they been saying to you?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," she stammered, unwilling to repeat the girl's rumor.  
  
"Don't worry, I can imagine what they said. And Dahlia, you earned your spot fairly. Not one of the first-level assistants will disagree with me. Neither will anyone else you've worked with."  
  
"That makes me feel better, really, but it doesn't stop anybody from spreading gossip." She sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "I wish I hadn't been born pretty. Stupid and vain as that sounds. It seems like every single scrape I've gotten into since I was born happened because of that."  
  
"Well, I don't know," commented Constantin lightly. "I think it was a simple lack of sense that got you into trouble with the prince. Everyone knows that it's Marius's goal in life to tumble every young woman in the palace before he turns twenty. How could you go off and dance with him?"  
  
Clarisse found a small blank scrap of parchment, rolled it into a ball, and threw it at his head. He ducked before it hit him.  
  
"Forgive me, your Highness," he said, holding up his hands as if to ward off blows. "I will be quiet."  
  
Maybe Clarisse's exhaustion was affecting her head; maybe it was a release of tension after discovering her secret was safe; maybe it was a sudden burst of real affection. Whatever the cause, Clarisse stood up, bent down, and kissed Constantin lightly on the cheek.  
  
They stared at each other, the princess just as surprised as the Head Cook was.  
  
It's now or never, she thought. I don't know why, but this moment is important. What do I do?  
  
She leaned forward and kissed him again, this time full on the mouth. Constantin wrapped his arms around her and, for a little while, her worries were gone.  
  
  
  
A week later, Clarisse returned to her room in the evening to hear voices within. With a gasp of delight, she pushed the door open and saw Rosemary and Marlyn sitting on their respective beds. Just like they had never left.  
  
"Dahlia!" cried Rosemary, getting up to give the princess a hug.  
  
"Did you two just get back? I never heard anything…" said the princess, happy but confused. Marlyn hugged her too and gestured for her to sit down.  
  
"We arrived two hours ago, but we had work to do, getting everything in order for Lady Marionetta again."  
  
Clarisse nodded from her seat next to Rosemary.  
  
"I've missed you two so much—how was the tour of the south? Was it warm?"  
  
"It wasn't too great," commented Rosemary. "Everything smelled like fish when the wind blew the wrong way. But it was warm, which I can't say of this place. How do you keep from freezing? That enormous old coat you're wearing?"  
  
"Yes. And, before you make fun of me for it, you'll be wishing you had a raggedy fur coat too before long."  
  
"Why would we make fun of you?"  
  
Clarisse eyed Marlyn speculatively, but she seemed to be sincere.  
  
"Never mind. I'm not going to tell you what the kitchen helpers are calling me. It would just encourage them."  
  
Then, suddenly, a glint on Marlyn's hand caught hr eye. She looked down, and saw…  
  
"Marlyn!" she yelled, "Where did you get that?" It was a gold ring set with a single stone, on her left hand. Marlyn and Rosemary laughed; Marlyn was blushing slightly.  
  
"Henri asked me to marry him," she explained shyly. It was the first time Clarisse had ever seen Marlyn do anything shyly.  
  
This winter is getting stranger and stranger, she thought wryly. Glancing toward Rosemary, she saw something else she hadn't noticed before: the edges of her eyes were reddened, as I she had been crying.  
  
"When are you going to be married?" Clarisse asked.  
  
"This spring. We're not sure yet." The dark-haired woman sighed. "It feels so odd. I won't have to work as a maid anymore and I'll have a nice set of rooms of my own in the palace, since Henri is a member of the court. I'll miss living with you two so much! I'm happy, but I'm sad too."  
  
Rosemary moved to sit next to Marlyn and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.  
  
"Marlyn, listen. You've been like a sister to me for as long as I can remember. You getting married can't change that. I'm really glad that you won't have to slave away for milady anymore, and even more glad that you've found someone to love."  
  
"And it's not like you'll never see us again," put in Clarisse. "We'll all still be living in the same palace. Who knows? Maybe someday, a handsome baronet will fall in love with Rosemary and you two can live next door to each other up on the fourth floor of the castle."  
  
Marlyn grinned, as did Rosemary. The fourth floor was where the very lesser inhabitants of the court—like baronets and composers—lived.  
  
"What about you, Dahlia?"  
  
"Oh, I think I'm perfectly happy where I am. I'll be a first-level assistant soon enough, and—," she stopped abruptly.  
  
"And what?" asked Rosemary curiously.  
  
"Nothing," she replied with an innocent look on her face.  
  
"Hmm," said Marlyn. "Has anything interesting happened here since we left?"  
  
Clarisse's eyes widened as far as they would go; then, with a shaking breath, she started giggling uncontrollably.  
  
Shall I tell them all of it? she asked herself, her mind filling with visions of Verbonya, her dresses, the prince, and Constantin. Maybe I will. But I will definitely tell them something of it.  
  
She laughed until she cried. Against all odds, for now, everything seemed to have turned out all right.  
  
  
  
Authors Note—Well, that's the end. How sad! I've been working on this for months now. I guess I'll have to start a new story to take its place. Anyways…Questions, comments, or concerns? Put them in your review or email me. I'm curious to see what everyone thought of the end. And if you liked this story (shameless plug alert), why don't you try any others?  
  
Well, enough advertising. I'd just like to say, before I finish, ThankYouThankYouThankYou to anyone who read this story. You guys are so cool. I love my reviewers. ^____^ Ciao! 


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